We're growing older, presumably wiser.
But are we living or simply surviving one day till the next?
Is this the best we can do for ourselves?
I work hard, I dance hard, I kickbox hard;
Life runs its course, just like the creeper on my terrace,
Reaching into nooks and crannies,
Getting where it has to go.
And all this while, the mountain of love within grows vaster,
Like my own sky inside.
It feels under-utilised, as if not recognised still for what it is.
I give love to my animals - the most deserving of it.
My plants, my family, my friends.
Sometimes, moved by benevolence, even to those who wish me ill.
Most often than not,
My love is misunderstood and played by fragile egos.
But love knows no ego.
It knows no games.
It only knows to love - wholeheartedly.
Why do we place love into boxes?
Why call it "romantic love" or "sexual love" or "platonic love"?
Why this need to ascertain?
Why not simply feel the love, the joy that it brings,
And cradle that memory in your heart forever?
I look around me and I find deceit, self-absorption;
A world that is blindly in love with itself.
And nobody else.
Such a pity.
If only they could lift their eyes to recognise love,
If only they could set aside the fears that grip them,
That keep them from loving.
That keep them from receiving love.
Then they could recall with a smile,
While taking their last breath,
That they had been loved. Truly. By that one person. Called me.
