Once upon a time, there WAS a once-upon-a-time. You know, the motor-neuronic, utterly wonderful, coming-together of connecting. Romance with a capital R.
Being a grown-up, you discover Love means much more than sensation. Much more than illusion. Stuff like ... they'll be there when I'm not so pretty ... they'll forgive me if I stray ... they'll forgive me anything, because, well ... they actually LOVE me. They want ME.
Love. It's a pretty thing, kind of like a card you get for your birthday. Oh, how nice ... she loves me!
When, deep down, you just "know" you don't deserve it. You fear it. "Love" is somehow equated to "the parents," beyond whom you just can't get past. The parental imprint: You suck. The grown-up reflexive response: Must-avoid-entanglements=Must-cut-self-off-from-"love."
What kind of self are we when we fear love?
Love is the powerfulest thing there is.
Why do we cut ourselves off from Universal power? And why do we hurt ourselves ... or the one we really do love?
Heavy, karmic bad stuff. Me, love is everything. You'll never, ever, catch me dissing someone for caring enough to love.