Mystical Musings: about being loved

I write in the laundry notebook. Where weekly payments and the number of shirts brought for washing are recorded. If I wait until I get home, the opportunity to clarify these thoughts that have just arisen as soon as I hung up the call will have faded.

So I write in the laundry notebook, while it rains inside of me and outside in the mountains. And the dryers are heard rumbling as if they were in my chest, turning emotions instead of clothes.

It has made me think about the ways of love, those that overflow or drain into the jar where my own ways of wanting to be loved barely fit. Some overflow, and others don't even moisten the ventricles of my heart.

Am I accepting less love than I yearn for, am I settling for less love than I deserve? Or am I accepting love in all its forms, even those I don't expect, those I don't desire, those that don't fill me.

But why don't they fill me? Why do I want more and more and more? Every time I want a love that is more intense, purer, more transparent. It doesn't fill me.

It's a hunger for love.

I have realized that it's because I fantasize about a love that doesn't exist. That I've only drawn like distant landscapes; as far as the walls of my brain allow me, the limit of what is known and experienced.

So when I encounter human love, it seems scarce, meager, elusive. Flesh and bone love leaves me hungry.

"How well you know how to love," one has told me. "I don't want a world without your love," another must have said. "Your love has made me see, has helped me, has changed me." I wish I could say the same about theirs, loves.

I don't know another love except mine reflected in the other. The love I yearn for only exists within me. What can be perceived from the outside is only the glimmers of its true brilliance, its authentic warmth, its magnificent presence.

It's because we long for the love we have already felt, the one we know and makes us feel at home. That's why it only exists in us, in brain memories, and physical stimuli.

The thirst for love is nothing more than a need to confirm that it does exist, that we are not alone, that it's worth it; that it makes sense to keep walking in the darkness until we find a fire that keeps us alive.

Do not doubt anymore, love does exist. But it's not of one, of two, of three. It's infinite and impossible to touch, never possible to hold.

Without the need to prove it, it is. Without pursuing it, I am.