Love is one of the highest forms of intelligence. It is complicated to love—deep, true, honest, long-standing, real, meaty love is difficult to find, difficult to give, and (even more?) difficult to receive. For all of love's jawing, we all still show up and sing and dance and paint and write and court our lover Love. We want Love to shine on us--we want to bask in Love no matter the pitfalls.
For as wonderful and amazing as being in love is, love can be just as sinister as it is enlightening. It can make you light, weightless, spry—somehow you can feel free and supported—what a comfort. But when love rots, it buries you under a thousand pounds of festering sorrow.
Love intimidates even the best of us—specially the best of us. It’s hard to feel worthy when love is so good, so great, so unbelievable—what did I do to deserve something so perfect [as my daughter’s love]? What did I do to deserve something so brutal, so ugly, so devastating? Either way, it’s hard to believe that I could summon such an outcome.
Love conquers all. Everyone is conquered by love. What if I don’t want to be conquered? What if I don’t want to be occupied by love? But what are my choices, really.
Ain’t love grand? Well, isn’t it?