How love enslaves! All the pain and suffering hidden behind the mask of love. Claiming lives and changing destinies each day. When all human beings think of is the promise of happiness behind one big mass of an inexistent phenomenon. How painful to watch. Love, in its truest possible form, is that of God for man. One who has not experienced it forfeits his right to ever truly enjoy the man-made one.
Love, in its apparent human form, cannot even amount to the shadow of that of God. It is built on fickle hearts with even more fickle brains. And it can never be pure since it holds no sign of sacrifice. It has duly fallen short of the standard, even to the mere human as I. But when the slavery of it is so real, so alive, and so possible. And all I wonder is whether I will be ‘loving’ the incorrect and ungrateful. Whether at some point all the garments I have unpacked into Love’s comfort home will have to return into my suitcase and be thrown onto the next victim.
Sadly, we all seek happiness, and it isn’t in human love. All there is in it is slavery, to sin, to mistrust and untruth, to little support and understanding, to hate as another side to the coin, and a final brokenness that needs more than a Princess Marina Hospital bandage to fix. And it will be then when one realizes that although having had a smile or two to give and duly given, they took their all and threw it into an abyss, never to be drawn out again.
Then, Lwaone Pamela, do you love? The Lord, I do. He ransomed my soul. For family, a kinship I cannot break. For my mother and her womb, more so, (although I do not often realise). For man, merely an attachment that is weak enough to be broken. Hearts do pound, yes, and the flesh does come to life. But deeper within me, I can completely live without, with more peace I’m sure. Because even the heart knows that everything is a fabricated ideal, for the poorest of men to the richest, for the destruction of many, and for the birth of more.
Perhaps, today, I could look down to my smartphone and smile at all the ‘love’ going through unseen electrical currents. Such bliss. And I may gain a little one, a diamond on my finger, new family, sexual infections, heartbreak, tears of pain and joy, a little laughter at the man whose study is limited and the vaporous essence of life. The fabricated ideal may add more life, if not reduce it, for I thrive in Christ and in my lone star existence. And after my beautiful nebulae destruction, mere man, with eyes limited to what is without and souls starved of philosophy may look, while throwing in some sand, and say, “She lived her life to the fullest.” Having never known.