My dear, it might be time to look at the world without historic explanations.
These dancers? They’re new. We’ve never seen them before. The feathers. The bells. Where are they from? Does it work? Does it fail? Why chant? Why stomp?
Questions, but we require no answers. It’s just beautiful. It doesn’t have to be tidy.
And this? This is a lot like love. Find it, and the world unfolds. It stretches and it creaks. Funny that we get this wrong. We think love collapses our world: just you and me babe, let’s hide in our shelter and let the world fall apart around us.
That’s not love. That’s fear.
Real love is like oil. You try to hold it, but it spills into the world. It drips on your shoes and pants. It leaves traces on everyone—friends, strangers, enemies.
It’s the virus we hope to catch.