Contracts.
Traditional celebrations.
Gifts.
None of these are love.
They are not required for love.
Love is pre-conditional.
All of these try to control love, to possess it — and it
can’t be done.
That’s why I’ve always resisted control of any kind.
Even when I was getting married at the tender age of twenty-one, something inside me — which I couldn’t understand at the time, but noticed — wasn’t participating. It wasn’t at peace, in harmony, or joyful.
Love is indifferent to comfort, but intolerable to falsity.
I remember wandering in the dark as a child, searching for
meaning.
Trying to make sense of a world that wasn’t making sense.
I wondered if I lacked something. Or if I had lost something.
What I was really searching for — without consciously
realizing it — was this:
What, if anything, remains if everything is pulled away?
I didn’t know then (because I wasn’t meant to) that this “if” would gradually become “when”.
Because everything that wasn’t love had to burn out — the way the flame of a candle eventually burns out.
So I wandered. And I never stopped wondering.
There were tides and cycles. Highs and lows. Storms and
calm.
Success and failure. Recognition and rejection.
Flow — and obstacles that blocked the way.
But I didn’t seek possession.
I wanted meaning.
Safety was never comfortable.
I wanted truth — the kind that stands the test of time, circumstances, and
conditions.
What — if anything — remains when everything is swept away?
The question was never hypothetical. I lived inside it long before language caught up.
Everything was swept away.
Even my own lifeline, as it entered its completion.
You don’t decide that.
You don’t choose it.
The structure completes itself, no permission required.
At the end, clarity begins.
Everything else has been tried.
No other loop begins.
There’s no illusion of “next” or “progress”.
We see what’s real.
The end isn’t a journey.
It’s a reckoning.
Beginnings are overrated.
Ends don’t — can’t — pretend.
Then you realize — like a fish might realize it has always been swimming in water — that love is pre-moral, pre-romantic, pre-sacrifice, pre-symbolic, pre-emotional.
Love is a force.
The fabric on which reality takes place.
Not a force like electricity, which we can measure — but
like gravity.
We don’t know what it is, but it is undeniably there.
The foundation on which other forces dance.
One day, science may discover that gravity, love, aether, womb — are the same thing spoken in different languages.
Words only point.
They are never the thing itself.
“Love everyone.”
That isn’t love.
That’s sentimentality dressed as virtue.
Control fearing differentiation.
Division posing as oneness.
Because there is no “outside”.
No “else”.
Love includes all emotions.
All states.
All expressions.
It is fierce and kind.
Unforgiving and gentle.
Uncompromising and vulnerable.
Sweet and sour.
It holds highs and lows.
Darkness and light.
Warmth and cold.
We need differentiation — not to divide, but to discern.
To know what is real and what pretends.
What is authentic and what is false.
What remains when everything is lost.
Intuition comes from the heart — the true, central compass.
Not from the gut.
Not from instinct.
Not from the mind.
Intuition doesn’t negotiate.
It knows.
It doesn’t warn.
It points.
