I'm always knowing these men who fall in love with every woman they meet for at least five minutes. And I'm always knowing these women who settle for nothing less than perfection so painful it shatters the very lives we live. The illusion that there is anything else more worthwhile than love.
Is it really a sacrifice?
And what part of ourselves must we lose in order for it to exist? Are those parts even worth having? Or is it just a comfort? A little room we built when our hearts was broken one too many time. Or one unending time.
Definitions of love.
Seeing light even when it's shrouded from all.
Speaking truth to spite inside waves lapping
Morning glow laughter
Blue eyes.
Can it be that a spirit essence of any we've loved travels with us through our life, inhabiting one or another new friend. If we only look at the times they told us we were bad, will only we be told such? If maybe we come to terms with those bedroom moments, brilliant, silent - stop protecting the memory, open the jar - will our hearts again be opened? That once loved hidden in the deepest parts of myself. Buried with all speech, all sense, all memory of the past. What was so real, but seen no more. So felt there was no feeling.
See see see, impurity is nothing more than conditioning we lerned when we left our cocoon to fall downpon the world. noOne is human til the day they lose love.
No god exists til one day, love again, and eternity.