I don’t believe that one day my true love will appear. I think the concept is a crock. If you loved The Notebook, please don’t write.
I believe in real love, though. I’ve seen it at hospital beds and weddings and in old peoples’ homes. Real love is strong and tested and faithful – and true. It’s been through downs as well as ups and survived.
It takes time and effort – it’s not the thunderbolt that strikes for eternity – but it is rich and satisfying and it will keep you warm at night.
True means not lying or cheating or hiding your heart. It means giving as much as you can within a relationship in a spirit of love and friendship and respect.
I believe in laughter, when you’re happy or sad, when things go wrong, or right, or when there’s simply no other refuge. I believe in shared goofiness and silly names and celebrating the child that we all are within with a lover.
I believe in kisses in the moonlight and over coffee or first thing in the morning when you are hardly ready to start the day and last thing at night when sleep will steal you away.
I believe in handholding, not just to cross the road but for the sheer joy of connection, or to say I care, or I’m sorry.
I believe in kindness and consideration.
I’m all for acceptance of flaws and foibles and individual beauty.
I believe in great sex, just because. In touching and talking and exploring the adult side of a great relationship.
Is any of this true?
True love is the unicorn of romance. The stuff of love songs and broken hearts and giddy romance and ultimate sacrifice. The Holy Grail of love, obtained with a map and compass that point us to a place far away in our imagination, in our longing to escape the reality of failed relationships or not loving well or enough.
I believe in love. and I believe it should be true.

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