Love is holy. Love is God-given. Love is full of light. Love is music.
Love is warmth and generosity. Love is full of cuddles and smiles.
Love is pure.

Feeling love for a child is like falling into soft balls of cotton. A cloud of softness wofts over and around your soul.

The presence of the child unlocks a secret, gorgeous, magical, yummy, cuddly, flying, singing part of the soul. His beautiful innocence and freshness makes the harpstrings inside resonate.

The smallness, the delicateness, the freeness, the vulnerability, the shining, the pitter-pattering of the feet, the soft round cheeks, the sparkling eyes--all so lovable.

So harmonious a connection between his beauty and my soul, which seems to resonate and respond so perfectly. Such a delight, such a whirling joy, to be tickled in the spirit like that. Yes, the presence of the boy tickles the soul into laughter and sends it flying and dancing.

The boy reminds my soul of its freedom, of its ecstasy, its music, its spontaneity, its lightness. My soul is released into a sublimated height, allowed to fly. The fairy within awakens.

Like the air coming out of a popped balloon, or a secret told for the first time, like a laughter escaping involuntary, the soul bursts out into a wider, fuller existence. Free and subject to nothing it dances off the walls and flies around the house, able to go anywhere spontaneously. The soul buzzes and whirrs and twitters. The soul's excitement is its flight.

Is this the ecstasy of delighting in a boy, or is it the ecstasy of being a child? They are inseparable. The beauty of the boy releases the boy within. The boy that was wounded and unable to fly and shine, and so now longs painfully to go free. It hopes that it can fly like it should have years ago--if it were not so brutally damaged at such a fragile time--by identifying with another boy who does fly now.

But you--you--you need to remember that you are a boy, always. You were hurt and brought down from your flight. Your magical self hid away. Go back there and reverse the sad moment when the boy stopped being a boy.

The flying boy in you will not be happy riding on the back of other boys who fly--you want to fly with them, not on them.