Everything has an arc. Perhaps I should end my essay here.
A thrown ball rises, hangs suspended in midair for a moment (Oh, that delicious feeling of floating), and then falls to earth. Throw high and hard, and the arc will be long and gentle. Or hurl the ball to the ground for something shorter and steeper.
What if you are the ball? Or your dreams, or your love? Whether the arc is measured in minutes or years, everything will rise, hang, and fall. A ball on the ground is nothing to cry about. Pick it up and throw.