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The craving begins like fire: bright, consuming, a fantasy that promises escape. But fire burns down. The newness fades, and the fantasy remains—a shimmering mirage too exhausting to pursue. The highs and lows of desire, the tremors of closeness, the silent negotiations of time and attention—they are a labyrinth you navigate together, yet alone.

Bodies intersect, souls brush, lives penetrate one another, yet in the end, you return to yourself. Your mind. Your consciousness. The other may falter, vanish, grow distant, or die—but you remain, a solitary witness to your own presence.

Marriage becomes a kind of magic and a crucible: two travelers walking parallel paths, guided by the same mystery, drawn into a rhythm of intimacy and exhaustion. Desire is a tide, rising and falling, leaving both wonder and emptiness in its wake. Fantasy lingers, haunting, reminding you of what was once infinite, now finite, yet still alive in memory.

And still, you walk your path. Alone, yet alongside. Intertwined, yet undiminished. Marriage does not dissolve the self; it illuminates it. It makes you see what it is to be fully alive, fully human, fully responsible for the mystery that is you.

And if you find someone who stays with that mystery, who remains despite wanting to leave, you have not only found the mystery—you have found the longing. To love, and to be loved, without the roses, without the staged intimacy, the revelations, or the longing.