love-filled

It's not so much that I have gotten lost as that I have decided instead to be less confident in the degree to which I am completely founded; or what I am founded upon. I am rightly confounded. The more days that pass I am certain only that I am a beating heart in the emotional sense of a love-filled loving thing that just keeps on loving in its way. "In its way" is the real point, you see, it's that that makes all the difference between us. In fact, it is that which account for the difference between any of us at all I should say.

There you are, going about yourself in your way, and here I am in my way, and we are all made of love, loving about, and all the difference is in our way of loving. And God-help-me if I don't make a mess of it now and then, in my blessed endearing terrible lovely way. But here I go, as you go, no doubt, no better or worse; lovely sloppily, neatly, carefully, too carefully at times, an carelessly on some days, and sometimes in long stretches and even seasons or years at a time. The point really is, there isn't anything too grand to worry about.
Yes, I suppose that must be the point. With the substance being the same, it's all really just a matter of style, and there is no accounting for trends and stylistic sway.
Just love on, dear soul. It's what you're made of, there's nothing more or less of you, and there's not a thing else to do. And you do it beautifully after all. I love you.