It is never truly about Another. It is about the loving space they hold, it is about the heart opening they facilitate. It is never truly, fully, about another. It is about the remnants of shadow they reflect back to ourselves, it is about the wrong-reasons-why-we-got-there but didn’t know about until we saw.

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Yet sometimes, it is, actually, about Another.

I remember feeling this, with the highest clarity, centuries ago, for someone.

I remember feeling this, and thinking this – and since then life has happened, in a million different ways but strangely, this knowing always remained, always came back.

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On the evolutionnary path, it is never truly about the other. We walk most importantly to learn about ourselves, and we learn in interdependence – thanks to and through this magical, divine, sacred and sometimes crazy mirroring thing we experience with all those soul contracts we are blessed to receive.

But I remember feeling, and thinking once that, with this specific Soul β€” and even if the mirror thing got activated like madness sometimes, in all its glory, drama, intensity and fear, and even if the best as well as the seemingly worse were learnt there β€” that underneath all the rest, all the layers, and above everything else,

Somewhere, up in the sky or down here in some mysterious sacred room β€” we were only about Love.

I remember feeling that in the highest and most timeleness Truth, it was truly about Him β€” as an essence, as a melody of words, as a certain way of being, as an energy.

As if no other feeling of love, no other appreciation could be that pure, that strong and deep yet detached, that all-forgiving and accepting, that certain, that ever-present, that genuine.

As if no other love could be that solid, structural, sure, stable, lasting – could just Β« Be Β» as this one Is.

As if maybe, if one day I was ready for Love – for the Essence of it – then it could only happen there, like when things fall into place and a given puzzle-piece falls into its own unique, dedicated spot.

As if the highest form of love, in all its beauty and purity – if one day I was ready for it – if one day I became Love myself – then it would, as evident and obvious as magic, only be him.

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