To love is heartbreaking. To love is pain. To love is a heavy weight, but never a burden. To love is to put one’s self into an equation with a frighteningly unknown variable—another person. We defy the unknown; we fear it. That is why our love is most commonly and thoughtfully vested in those we find consistent and predictable, reliable, because even a predictable variable is still a variable. To love the inconsistent is another story; it is daring at least and foolish at best. It is draining, yet, still, this love is honorable as it is naïve. I cannot put a finger on the source of this kind of love—it is not a natural, common thing, but rather an exception to a long-standing precedent. It is frightening and vulnerable. Once you have been to that place, you understand what it is like for strength to make you feel utterly weak. Such love can crush your spirit unless you are grounded in the understanding of the fact that you cannot expect anything; you can only commit to love a vast unknown and keep your own worth and acceptance independent of that unknown.