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The picture series below is by artist Puuung who says that “Love” is something that everybody can relate to.
And “Love” comes in ways that we can easily overlook in our daily lives. So, she tries to find the meaning of love in our daily lives and then make it into works of art.
Sometimes, while you sleep, I watch over you. As the sunlight fills the room I notice how long your eyelashes are and how your freckles lightly sprinkle your nose. I smooth the hair from your face and snuggle in closer. I smell your skin and I know that you are where I belong.
Mornings with you are the best. I love how we nourish one another with love before food. I love how making breakfast takes five times longer than it should as we talk and laugh and hold one another so tight. I love waking up with you.
Some of my favourite times are those lazy Saturday mornings when we have nowhere to be, no plans and nothing to do, but just be. Together. You do your thing and I do mine, and we happily exist knowing the other isn’t far. I love how we send one another simple messages, even though we are at the other’s side. I also love how you look over and smile and that’s enough.
I’ll always be clumsy and break things and cry over things that mean nothing. Really you know that it isn’t the pot that I’m sobbing over it’s the irritation with myself for dropping it. You soothe me and hug me and put me back together and then put the pot in the bin. And when I next look on the window ledge, you will somehow have replaced it with a makeshift one from the shed. I love how you fix things with calm and with a grin. As you know before long, I will break things again.
I don’t hate thunder, I’m not afraid of lightning, but I do get sad and tearful for the animals with no shelter and for the people who have no homes to take cover from the storm. I cry for the world and we don’t talk about it, but when the storm has passed we make a trip to the animal rescue centre with blankets and take food to the homeless. And my tears will empty and my heart will feel full… for now.
We never manage to read the newspaper without putting the world to rights while we do it. We sound like we know how the world should work and we have debates and opposing opinions and sometimes think the same. We believe little of what’s printed and work out what’s really happening behind the stories they tell.
I love how you make the most delicious home made soup, and you always insist I try a little before you add another ingredient. I know you’ll forever try to make it taste how my Grandma made it, but may never succeed. My Grandma’s soup tasted of her love and her warmth and although you have those things in you, my Grandma’s soup can never be replicated as it was more than soup. Your’s is perfect because you flavour with pieces from your heart and stir with your love.
On your Birthday, I love to surprise you, I love to see the sparkle in your eyes and I love how you adore the cake more than any gift that could be purchased. Or, at least, that’s what you tell me. And I believe you.
I love when we sing together, mostly out of tune and always forgetting most of the words. It’s more fun when we make up our own.
Whenever we visit a bookstore we always say, someday, our home will look like a bookstore and our grandchildren will look at us in wonder and puzzlement and question why we have books and why our home has little technology. We like it that way. We will always read books.
Lying on a hammock reading with you just makes the whole world make sense. I forget the words I read as I’m lost in our bliss.
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Even though you’re pretty bad at fixing my hair, I love how it looks when you’ve brushed and pulled and painfully tied it into a tail.
We dance and I imagine we are in a magical fairy tale ball as you are most definitely my prince. And you most definitely have charm.
I love how you tell me it’s all fine and going to be okay and it’s only hair and will grow once more. And then sneak to the hairdressers to ask them to somehow even out the choppy long and short bits I’ve created all over.
We laugh and squeal but the dog just looks at us in wonder. Then, we shout at him when he jumps out and runs crazy around the house shaking and trying to dry himself, however, his selective hearing has already turned on.
Late night movies with my best friend, with snacks and snuggles and me whispering “What’s happening” and “Who’s he?” at regular intervals and you just look at me with patience and reply, “I have no idea… it’s a movie, if you wait, you’ll see.”
Read to me, please, and when you do, talk in all those different tones you use to describe each character. I will smile and watch you read and have no clue to what you’re saying. I’m too busy being mesmerised in you.
And sometimes I will read to you and you will just enjoy the softness of my voice and pull me closer to you. Until the cat gets envious and demands your attention.
Sometimes I will write and work and you will find me asleep, and you will cover me over and when you next come back, I will have woke and be working just a little more. Then, when you’ve finished strumming your guitar, we’ll leave all our passions and discover it again held tight in one another’s arms.