La Dame aux Camelias

There are few things in life that seem never-ending to me: love and hate. Some even think that love won't exist without hate. Are they actually connected in our mind, I don't know and won't ever know that.
The other night I could not find any sleep, re-reading La Dame aux Camelias, thinking of her story, of my story. Are all love stories in the world interconnected? Do we all find our love story in the eyes of someone else, who has been more brave to spill it out?
My truth about loving would be more hidden: it would be depicted in the Water lilies by Monet, or secretly revieled by the full moon. Sometimes I can't believe how the moon affects me in these particular nights. I find more comfort in the Water lilies hanging on the wall as a humble postcard than in a human conversation which usually leaves me empty and emotionless.
What is the best way to express your emotions when you are a foreigner in another land? How can I learn to express them the same way as the rest of people?
The answer lies in the book. Everything ever written holds the key to life. The answer is always simple and here it is: patience. How could I refuse that thought from the start? So simple: just patience.
I am sure, she, courtisane was of more heart and patience than any other woman with name and position. I am also sure that this woman made an ever-living example to all of us: Love is not always easy, love is not always a pink vanilla dream, love can be harsh, it can be cruel, it can be misleading or destructive, it can be whatever you have never expected it to be, but this doesn't change love itself, Love is always Love, which you can not refuse even if it makes you die. In the end it can only change us, its humble slaves.