Love

Love, as a bodily experience, has its limitations.

Somewhere in the middle of my adult life, I realise how often it reduces itself to an urge—to be loved, or to feel love in the presence of another.

But love, as a feeling, is far more vast.

I have been deeply loved in this lifetime.

Validated, held, even by those I could not return love to in the same measure.

Even in moments of being misunderstood, love found me.

And yet, there are days I feel the need to be claimed in love.

To belong to it in a way that feels certain.

I see now, this too is a quiet fallacy.

If love has always existed within me,

why must it depend on the presence of another to be awakened?

When the divine itself is an act of love—

and everything we call home was born from it—

why do we shrink it into definitions, expectations, and returns?

Love, in its truest form, is flow.

It does not require reciprocation to exist.

The moment it becomes an equation,

it begins to feel insufficient—

because no two vessels can ever hold or return it the same way.

Forms change. People change.

But the source does not.

Perhaps love is not something to measure,

but something to choose.

And as I choose, again,

to love without quantifying,

to allow myself to be loved without condition,

and to return inward with the same softness—

there is a presence I begin to feel.

It lives in silence.

It deepens when I step away from noise.

And yet, I often evade it in the rush of living.

Maybe love, like alchemy,

does not arrive—it is consecrated.

And what exists within us

must sometimes be undone

before it can be transformed.

This is not an easy choice.

But perhaps this is what it means—

to love oneself