William de Brailes—Noah’s Flood. 1250 (h/t Rabih Alameddine)
Ought not these oldest sufferings of ours to be yielding more fruit by now? Is it not time that, in loving, we freed ourselves from the loved one, and, quivering, endured: as the arrow endures the string, to become, in the gathering out-leap, something more than itself?
For staying is nowhere.
You can love a man
more than he’ll ever love back or be able to, you can confuse
your understanding of that
with a thing like acceptance or,
worse, all you’ve ever deserved.