Transcription
Love, such a fragile word for something that neither bends nor breaks. You imagine it as a fleeting flame, easily snuffed by the winds of time. But love, child, is the marrow of eternity. It burrows deep, carving hollows in your soul, leaving threads of itself tangled in every corner of your being.
These threads, your so-called soul ties, are not ornaments but sinews, binding you to those who have touched the essence of what you are. Some ties are gossamer soft, as whispered secrets; their pull so gentle you might mistake it for nothing at all. Others, oh others, are taut cords, knotted with pain, frayed with the strain of lifetimes. They dig into you, don't they? They make you bleed. Yet even in the bleeding, they refuse to let you go.
That is the paradox of love: its tenderness, its cruelty, its inescapable truth. It pulls at you, no matter how far you drift, no matter how deep you bury yourself. You've cursed it, I know. You've wept over its weight. But it is not your enemy; none of them are. These ties, however heavy, are your map, your compass, your reckoning. They lead you not toward ruin, but toward remembrance of the parts of yourself you left in others, and the parts of others that now live in you.
Do not fear them, for they are the veins through which love flows. And love, child, is never a mistake, even when it wounds; for in the breaking it remakes you, in the burning it refines you. And when all else is dust and silence, these threads will remain, glowing faintly in the dark—the only proof that you have ever truly lived. So hold them close, even the ones that hurt; tend to them, even the ones that choke. They are not shackles but songs, melodies that echo through the vast, eternal tapestry of what you are becoming. And when the day comes that you understand this, you will see that every thread, every tie, was love. Always love.