The feeling comes and goes, but the more I consider it, the more I feel as if I am undeserving of enjoying the affection of a woman so perfect and, herself, deserving.
By what justification can an imperfect man bask in the glow of consummate female perfection? To attempt to bind an aspirational but flawed perfection to the ranks of the beautiful, the brilliant, the eternally considerate, seems an unfair burden, and one which the latter should never be suffered to endure.
I can rely on but one thing: the infinite grace and consideration inherent in that high rank of woman, an enduring if unsteady star in a field of darkness, guiding me north to brighter days—my Polaris, star of salvation.
