Would you rather have loved the more, and suffered the more; or loved the less, and suffered the less? That is, I think, the only real question in life. Of course, it isn't a real question because we didn't have the choice then.
If we had had the choice, then there would have been a question. But we didn't have the choice, so there isn't a question. Who can control how much they love? If you could control it, then it wouldn't be love. I don't know what you would call it instead, but it wouldn't be love.
Most of us have only one story to tell. I don't mean that only one thing happens to us in our lives: there are countless events, which we turn into countless stories. But there's only one that matters, only one finally worth telling in old age.
But here's the problem: if this is your only story, then it's the one you have most often told and retold, even if - as in my case - mainly to yourself. The question then is: do all these retellings bring you closer to the truth of what happened, or move you further away? I don't know. All I know is that I have learned to become careful over the years. I am as careful now as I was careless then.
