So much has been said about love. Love is hard work, or maybe it's passion, it's about looking in the same direction, and a whole heap of other things. Just live thirty years and then you'll understand what love is — says the one who has lived those thirty years, only to hear back from his offspring about how a new acquaintance just blew their mind. Love is patience, says the one who endures; love is forgiveness, says the one who has to be forgiven on a regular basis.
It seems we mirror ourselves in what we seek; we look for a support on which to build our “true” self, not realizing that we already know our “true” self and are simply picking out a fitting concept the way a failing student picks a solution to match the answer in the back of the book.
Do you love your leg, your arm? Never thought about it? And if you do stop to think — what exactly do you love that leg for? Do you feel passion toward it? Have you endured it for thirty years? Do you forgive it often? And does it forgive you?