Love Does Not Give You Sense (It Gives You the Right Intent)

Love does not arrive with instructions.
It does not sit you down
and explain the physics of why your chest tightens
or why the mind, that proud librarian of logic,
suddenly drops its catalog cards
and stares at a blank wall.

Love does not give you sense.
It never has.
If it did, poets would be unemployed,
wars would be shorter,
and the night would not feel so heavy
when you say a name into it
and wait for an answer that never comes.

What love gives you
is not clarity,
but direction—
a compass that spins wildly
yet somehow always points
toward what matters.

—

At first, love feels like confusion
wearing a crown of light.
You mistake the dizziness for destiny.
You mistake longing for knowledge.
You think, Now I know.

But you don’t.
You only feel.

And feeling is not a map.
It is weather.

A sudden monsoon
on a dry afternoon,
the smell of wet earth rising
before you can decide
whether to run or dance.

Love arrives like that—
without your consent,
without your preparedness,
without asking if the roof is strong enough
to handle rain.

—

Sense belongs to the mind.
It sorts, measures, compares.
It builds fences and calls them safety.
It asks for evidence.
It wants guarantees.

Love does none of this.
Love steps barefoot onto broken glass
and says,
I trust the ground will forgive me.

This is why love is dangerous.
Not because it hurts,
but because it removes the illusion
that you were ever in control.

—

In the beginning,
you try to translate love into sense.
You ask:
Why this person?
Why now?
Why does their silence echo louder
than everyone else’s words?

You line up reasons
like stones across a river,
hoping they will carry you
to certainty.

But the river keeps flowing.
The stones sink.
And you realize—
love is not a question to be solved
but a current to be entered.

—

When love touches you,
your inner world changes its gravity.

Things that once felt heavy—
ambition, pride, fear—
suddenly float.
And small things—
a glance,
a shared silence,
the memory of a laugh—
become planets
with their own moons.

You don’t understand this rearrangement.
You only live inside it.

—

Love does not sharpen your logic.
It softens your edges.

It makes you listen
longer than is reasonable.
It makes you forgive
before apologies are formed.
It makes you wait
without knowing what you are waiting for.

Sense would tell you to walk away.
Sense would say,
This is inefficient.
Sense would calculate risk.

Love simply says,
Stay.

—

There is a moment—
quiet, almost unnoticeable—
when you realize
that love is not interested
in your comfort.

It is interested in your becoming.

Like a forest fire
that looks like destruction
to anyone watching from afar,
but inside the soil,
seeds are cracking open,
waiting for heat to teach them
how to begin.

—

You begin to see yourself differently.

Not as a fixed shape,
but as something unfinished,
something learning its own outline
by brushing against another soul.

Love does not tell you who you are.
It gives you the courage
to ask the question honestly.

—

At night,
when the world goes quiet
and the stars begin their ancient work,
you feel it most.

The way love stretches you
beyond your own name.
The way your thoughts drift outward,
past rooftops and cities,
past borders and timelines,
until they touch something vast
and wordless.

You realize then—
love is not personal.

It only passes through persons.

—

The cosmos knows this.

Every galaxy is held together
by forces no one can see.
Dark matter.
Invisible gravity.
Unprovable pull.

If the universe relied only on sense,
everything would fly apart.

Instead,
it trusts attraction.

—

Love teaches you this lesson
slowly,
sometimes cruelly.

It shows you that sense is not enough
to hold a life together.
That logic cannot explain
why a heart keeps beating
after it has been broken.
That reason alone cannot account
for hope’s stubborn persistence.

—

You learn that intent matters more than outcome.

That choosing to love—
even when it makes no sense—
is an act of alignment,
not foolishness.

Like a sunflower turning toward light
it does not understand,
only recognizes.

—

There are days when love looks like loss.
Days when it feels like standing
at the edge of something you wanted,
watching it disappear into fog.

Sense will say,
You were wrong.
You misjudged.
You should have known better.

Love will say nothing.
It will simply remain,
quiet and undeniable,
like starlight that left its source
millions of years ago
yet still reaches your eyes.

—

Over time,
you stop asking love to make sense.
You stop demanding explanations.

You begin to ask better questions.

Am I kinder because of this?
Am I braver?
Am I more honest with myself?

If the answer is yes,
then love has done its work.

—

Love does not promise happiness.
It promises truth.

And truth is rarely comfortable,
but it is always alive.

—

As the inner journey deepens,
you notice how love changes
the way you see everything else.

Trees are no longer background.
They are witnesses.
Rivers are no longer scenery.
They are teachers of persistence.
The sky is no longer empty.
It is crowded with possibility.

You feel connected—
not in a sentimental way,
but in a quiet, undeniable one.

Like realizing your breath
has always been part of the wind.

—

Love widens your circle of concern.

It teaches you that what happens
to another being
is not separate from you.

That harm ripples.
That care echoes.

That intent—
even when unseen—
changes the shape of the world.

—

This is where love becomes cosmic.

Not dramatic.
Not grandiose.
Just vast.

You understand that the same force
pulling your heart toward another
is the force that bends light,
that births stars,
that keeps chaos from swallowing everything whole.

—

Love does not give you answers.
It gives you alignment.

It tunes you
like an instrument
until your inner frequency
matches something older
than thought.

—

You no longer need sense
to justify your softness.
You no longer apologize
for feeling deeply.

You see now
that sense is a tool,
but intent is a direction.

A knife can cut bread
or draw blood.
What matters
is the hand that holds it
and the heart that guides it.

—

Love gives you the right intent.

To choose care over convenience.
To choose presence over performance.
To choose truth over protection.

Even when you fail.
Even when you stumble.
Even when you hurt.

—

And one day—
quietly, without ceremony—
you realize something astonishing:

You are no longer afraid
of love not making sense.

You trust it.

Like the earth trusts gravity.
Like tides trust the moon.
Like seeds trust darkness.

—

Love does not give you sense.

It gives you courage.

It gives you orientation
in a universe that does not explain itself.

It gives you a reason
to step forward
without knowing the ground.

—

And in that step,
that imperfect, trembling step,
you become part of something vast—
a small human heartbeat
keeping time
with the stars.