To be in love. It used to be the most serious concept in the world. It used to mean everything, and make everything else mean nothing as a result. The circumstances that precede it, the possible life to follow, the life we live outside of it, all were nought - just give me love and I will be full. Remove from me love, and I will be empty. What a strange thing, love.
To be in love. It used to be the most overrated thing in the world. What a stupendous lie, this idea of love. To suggest we could be completed by someone else is hardly different or better than suggesting we could be completed by something else. What despair, this festering hole inside us, left unfilled until a mysterious foreign object attempts to change or destroy us. To which other virus would we bestow such honour? To which other plague would we hope for such a populace infestation? To which other cancer would we hope for such growth, despite knowing it requires such intense treatment? What a strange thing, love.
Love is only strange when it is not familiar. Love is only unfamiliar when it is not a part of us. When we are apart from love, we lose ourselves in an obsession to posess it. To reposess that which never rejected us. Love only asks of us a simple favour and reminds us when we forget. Love asks us to live with it. More correctly love asks if it can live in each of us. Love isn't satisfied living in our office, our our dogs, or in the other objects of our desires. Love does not want to be apart from us, it painfully begs us to love ourselves, to trap it there, ironically, to give it shelter. Love wants to share the same house, we just have to set the table and invite it for dinner. After that, love will give you everything you've been waiting for. Let love be in you and you will be in love. Oh, to be in love.
To be in love. It used to be the most overrated thing in the world. What a stupendous lie, this idea of love. To suggest we could be completed by someone else is hardly different or better than suggesting we could be completed by something else. What despair, this festering hole inside us, left unfilled until a mysterious foreign object attempts to change or destroy us. To which other virus would we bestow such honour? To which other plague would we hope for such a populace infestation? To which other cancer would we hope for such growth, despite knowing it requires such intense treatment? What a strange thing, love.
Love is only strange when it is not familiar. Love is only unfamiliar when it is not a part of us. When we are apart from love, we lose ourselves in an obsession to posess it. To reposess that which never rejected us. Love only asks of us a simple favour and reminds us when we forget. Love asks us to live with it. More correctly love asks if it can live in each of us. Love isn't satisfied living in our office, our our dogs, or in the other objects of our desires. Love does not want to be apart from us, it painfully begs us to love ourselves, to trap it there, ironically, to give it shelter. Love wants to share the same house, we just have to set the table and invite it for dinner. After that, love will give you everything you've been waiting for. Let love be in you and you will be in love. Oh, to be in love.
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