... shook violently today and as I held onto the door frame waiting for the lurching to stop - the experience of last March playing across my mind's eye - there was tumult, too, in the region of heart and lungs, at the possibility that this shake of nature's fist might keep us apart just as we have begun to come together.
Happiness is human, not divine, and the pursuit of happiness is what we might call love. This love, earthly love, is a truce between metamorphs, a temporary agreement not to shape-shift while kissing or holding hands. Love is a beach towel spread over shifting sands. Love is an initmate democracy, a compact that insists on renewals, and you can be voted out overnight, however big your majority. It's fragile, precarious, and it's all we can get without selling our souls to one party or the other. It's what we can have while remaining free... All treaties can be broken, all promises end up as lies. Sign nothing, make no promises. Make a provisional reconciliation, a fragile peace. If you're lucky it might last five days; or fifty years.
In the end such prophecy is useless. You just have to live your life, make your choices, move forward until you can't... One either loves, or waits for love, or banishes love for good. That is the full range of possible choices.
Salman Rushdie, The Ground Beneath Her Feet