It does seem, in so many places I look, not a soul will dare and submit to love. They are lonely because, void because. Perhaps I can boil this down to the root of modern woe. Symptoms of facelessness, divisiveness, physical and mental health on the decline, a world wrapped in to a small small screen. Where is the root though?
Love is a blank canvas of an infinite pool of sensations, actions, connections. I reference my own commitment to love, the pursuit of something grand and expository. My man and I struggle and bear a stern cross, but we walk the hill together. No words can express love better than it has already been written. I put that pen down now.
A friend who was once a true testament of love, now I worry your fear to sink in to it bury you. The reflection of the love we let ourselves receive mirrored all around. Will you love yourself so deeply that no one’s energy shall entangle you if it does not support you? Will you love yourself so deeply that you will let others in as witness, not as audience? You are glowing in love always, but so often giving all of it away. I do not think love breeds as such.
I do no suggest in greed. Perhaps I, in my life, have contended love with greed, love with pleasure, love with obsession. All sensations exist in poles, merging and layering. Love is no one of these. Love connects and explores on, love is intended.
A child has no such. My niece, a beautiful, potent, silly young miss. That love is intended by merit of God. Her mother and her, a love forged of the dividing body, dividing soul. Seedlings passing in the creeks and breezes bear flowers on an untouched hill. Who grew you, seedling?
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