I have fallen in love. I have fallen in love too many times, in fact.
I have fallen in love with the bookshop attendant who showed me the way to Milan Kundera’s shelf. I have fallen in love with the stranger who dragged me a seat next to his in that coffee shop, just so that we could sit down and have a little chat. I have also fallen in love with how my father wakes me up in the morning.
Only later I figured out that falling in love, apparently, has its own degrees.
Sometimes you simply stumble—your eyes might have overlooked a speed bump but soon enough you’re already on your feet. Other times, however, you have to face bigger bumps—cliffs, even. One of those days, you are pushed—on your back—such that you fall from a skyscraper; no matter how hard you try to be careful. For the first few minutes the journey to the ground seem endless and you start enjoying the sensation. At some point though, usually when you least expect it, you hit a hard floor beneath you—and break into parts.
When that happens, convince yourself that there is someone out there who has fallen just as deep and broken just as bad. Someone who understands how that feels and will gladly help you pick your parts from the ground.
If he ends up asking you on another jumping-off-the-cliff trip, you will accept it: because you know better this time and are prepared with the safety tools. You would not reject it even if you could—you admit that the risk was worth the fun.