On Love

Never fall in love. It’s sticky, and nothing gets the stain out.

True love needs nothing. It does not need a benefactor. It does not need to be reciprocated. It needs only itself–no object to place it on, nothing. That is true love. That is the love of the Gods.
Love the man who spits on you. Though he may hate you, you still make him feel love. The satisfaction derived from his hate, is your love, and in this, he loves you, for the feeling he got from you.

If one who loved you does not love you any more, worry not; for what was loved in them does not disappear, it remains. It remains when the loved does not.

To love another, that love should not be based on what they do for you or how they make you feel. That is self-love, not not-self love. Love when they make you happy. Love when they don’t. That is the love of the Gods.

When they’re alive and when they die, what is loved is inside them, yet not them, not born of them, and love in oneself is of the self, though not born of the self. One never owns a feeling, they find it along the path and name it. The feeling of love is a response to itself, as are all feelings. The are born of and exist as mirrors of each other. They are echoes and responses of themselves.

Love responds to love with love, and reoices in itself. Fear fears fear, and responds to itself with fear. Fear itself, and all the other abstracts which lie inside, are responses to themselves found on the path.

The part of another that is loved, is loved because of the part of the self that rejoices in the love of another. The part of the self that is feared or loved or hated, is a response to the same thing in others.

If the wrong are wrong, and the right are right, they are one and the same; a completed ball, as is love and hate; they form each other, and arise from each other.

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