“Love is never wasted, for its value does not rest on reciprocity.” C.S. Lewis
A heart full of holes. Once made to be filled, to contain, to hold, now punctured and cracked. Cracked from the dry years where it was forgotten and unwatered. Years without being soaked in the love it needed. Punctured from stabs and wounds inflicted by those who were supposed to guard it. So now, the love that is poured in, pours right back out through those cracks and punctures, flowing out and away, leaving that cracked and fractured heart unfilled, unnourished, empty.
But there is no end to the love poured into that broken little heart. It won’t run out. It is unbothered that the little heart can’t hold on to it, can’t keep it. That it slips through the cracks and holes so easily. It will keep pouring and pouring and pouring. Nourishing and filling it again and again, healing the wounds, closing the cracks, filling the holes. It will pour into that heart with the abandon of a crashing waterfall, cascading and dancing into the dark hollow void to fill it with sound and life and laughter. What matters it to Love if the heart cannot contain it all? What does it matter if it spills gallons and gallons of the precious substance? Love cares not. Love will pour in, and dance, and waste it all on that broken and empty little heart.
Love doesn’t hesitate to squander itself. Love rushes first to those places where it is sure to be squandered and wasted and misused. Those dark and dry hearts that do not have the capacity to hold it, is where Love goes first.
Love doesn’t hesitate to squander itself. It runs, laughing and dancing into the darkness ready to be wasted and poured out over and over and over again. Love rejoices in it. It splashed in the wasted puddles that have leaked through the cracks. Love dances in the cascade from the broken fractures and punctured holes. It doesn’t care to be wasted, it only cares to be poured out, to bathe all hearts in itself.
Love doesn’t hesitate to squander itself on those broken, hard little hearts so full of wounds and holes. Love knows that not a drop of itself is ever really wasted or squandered, for love doesn’t exist in a world of pragmatism and equations. Love doesn’t measure or judge or require payment. Love exists to be used up, because there is no end or measure to love. Love is a silly irrational thing, unconcerned by logic, reason or even reality itself. Love is like a giggling child, self assured, unaware of expectations or the standards of others. It just loves and gives itself and dances and pours.
Love looked at the bottomless pit of this world, the broken dysfunction of humanity and with a laugh and a shout rushed in, to be wasted and poured out and nailed on a tree and kill itself in the bottom of that pit and darkness.
For the Joy set before it, the joy of those dark and broken hearts. That was the Joy it rushed in for. For that, Love utterly destroyed itself and wasted every ounce of its life. Because it knew it was not a waste. Love laughed and knew it could not be wasted. The eternal vastness of love knows no waste. It knows only the joy set before it.