I don’t know much about gardening. My grandmother had hopes I’d Martha Stewart myself into a domestic dream, but I didn’t. I can barely cook and DIY crafts truly freak me out. I’m not exactly Susie Homemaker, ah, but I digress, gardening: I’ve at least got the basics.
Planting is simple: it starts with a seed. A small something that, when properly tended, can grow and blossom into something much larger. Something much more beautiful. Maybe it’s a lilac bush outside of a quaint cottage. Or bursting red tomatoes growing along a vine. A massive outstretched tree, reaching with arms to touch each corner of the universe. They all start the same way. A seed.
And I think it’s the same thing with love. Platonic, romantic, inner. Love begins in a small dose. It’s not this dramatic overture, violins and trumpets announcing the arrival of love. It doesn’t sprout…
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