Over the years as I have observed more around me, the way I think of love has obviously changed.

My first conception of it was more like a commitment than a state. And although I was dedicated, I knew myself too little to explore its true nature. Today the reasons for that avoidance seem obvious, but then it was a reality — and reality can never be observed from within.

Unsurprisingly it fell apart, along with my understanding. But through the experience I was able to rethink its meaning to me and become more open-minded and independent, and perhaps easier to endure.

Yet, I still thought of love as a binder, a blending of experience and reality into one. It was not until I wanted isolation that I realized my error.

With more thought about my old experience, today love seems more like a mystery. I did not anticipate the blissful detachment. Yet it’s infinitely better. In the past I was sure of what I had — and at the same time, wrong about it. Now, I joyfully know less and feel more comfortable within a space that seems both more delicate and surer, even with its definite boundaries.

As my understanding of solitude grows, so does my attachment to her and our life together, despite the irony. I still often think of being older, but so far it seems as if acknowledging the ultimate end is more of an enhancement to living than a fear. And this is not what I expected.