a metaphor for love

Catherynne M. Valente, always:

Saturday wanted to say: Listen to me. Love is a Yeti. It is bigger than you and frightening and terrible. It makes loud and vicious noises. It is hungry all the time. It has horns and teeth and the fore of its fists is more than anyone can bear. It speeds up time and slows it down. And it has its own aims and missions that those who are lucky enough to see it cannot begin to guess. You might see a Yeti once in your life or never. You might live in a village of them. But in the end, no matter how fast you think you can go, the Yeti is always faster than you, and you can only choose how you say hello to it, and whether you shake its hand.

Also from The girl who soared over Fairyland and cut the moon in two.

And my quite recent realization. Growing up, most of us hunt for love like hungry wolves, ravaging and thoughtless. We’ll do anything to be seen, appreciated, loved. Being without it seems like the scariest thing of all. But getting older, realizing that love was there all along, ripening in you like a persimmon. Rich and heavy, sticky and bright like a traffic sign. How completely overwhelming it is. Suffocating and a necessity for breathing, all at the same time. That is the scary part. It has me completely terrified.