Consequences of loving

This is a letter to the
Calloused Courageous

One begins on wondering how love works. Maybe it starts with a twinge in the heart area, maybe it presents itself as a gut-punch, or even the lightest sense of being... Like a high. But it's a high that feels like falling, hence the term, I imagine, Falling in Love.
That level of height has to be reached with some level of Courage, there is courage before the high. Or maybe it's the kind of stupidity, only an idiot savant, whose courage is unwavering simply because does it require any thought. Mixed the two can only create passionate fall. From what would be considered a high place even when you are low there is love.
In place of Courage my love. In place of the Fall the high. In place of calluses there is a tender heart. But in the end, my love, with whom I will fall again and again, you are the calloused courageous.

On the courage of stupidity and the Rarity is true love.

You don't believe in it out of your mouth, but your heart is locked inside of all of that callous courage. I know you have known deep love, I know you know it with me. I see it in your eyes a kind of mellow Misty song Karma you sang to me with a look. There is some kind of disbelief, the way a man looks at a mountain he wants to climb... And in that moment recognizance easy liquid. The thought of dying on that mountain cold and alone, is more scary a thought than falling from its highest peak. This is the way the calloused courageous sees love and loving the mountain of Allah.

In the beginning there was the mother. And then there was the friends. And then the recognition of the heart twins that felt like a gut-punch that made him so high. And then the following. And the Mountains Cold. And he was alone. Hand callus from gripping at the Mountainside. All breast and action, he is winded from The Climb. And at a summit, not yet the highest peak, he looks down. In that moment this mountain is Everest, Kilimanjaro and the mountains of the Lost all at once. Looking down at his calloused hands and then up at the mountain tops, he sees himself in a place between his greatest height, and his lowest fear. This mountain of love, this climb that is Will... and the courage to keep going with these ever calloused hands. Is contemplation seek it's gravity. The destination yet to be discovered. He doesn't think about courage. And he constantly climbs calling himself stupid for making the callousing effort. And yet, it is as if the peak calls his name... Softly and annoyingly tempting. His hands follow unwavering, recognizing the need and cursing the desire!

"My love," she calls to him... I would have no purpose except to serve your hands. I would have no meaning except that you see my highest point and speak it out for yourself, for your satisfaction, for your conquering. Would any other see me as this great hike to speak. No other climber. No other Explorer. Only you. you see me is greater than I am. Here I was thinking of myself as some Mound, abreast on the face of the Earth Indian hanging on to me so tight me for life, and yet so afraid of the Fall. You are the story, however many stories high you find me worthy of the climb, an effort you make that is told by the calluses of your hands. Know weather of courage could be so Noble, nor climber so high that the fall would be worth it if today we die The Little Death.