Sick I am, to the core, of passion's mask of love. Sick I am of attraction; of sex; of lust. Each spinning its own web of sour quasi-truth. Each dangerously convincing until the kindle spent: the heart can play no longer at the flitting pace of a masquerade. Do men truly love, or is it only a game played by childish dreamers? Too dangerous for me is the road of validation though so often have I walked there; so often does it call me and tempt me and hold me with its deceptions so delicious. And yet love so defined has only led me in dark circles; grasping at the night for moments, words, and songs. No, love is not a passion. For, try as they might, passions cannot penetrate the depth of the human soul. Chasing clouds and swearing vows hold their permanence only in ignorance.
Is true love so uninteresting that sonnets never touch it? Complex, perhaps, or mysterious or only a fact of perception? No, I say. It is a gift and, in this, it is the sister of spirituality. For do we not see similar trends in conversion? Do we not mistake passion for fidelity; excitement for testimony? Faith is not guesswork, nor a dramatic step to spite the dark: it is the knowledge of the guiding hand amidst the daunting world. So too is love not a symphony of expression: it is a symphony of life. It is a truth that, when sown, takes root in the very core of human identity. But pray, these roots can be touched by the changing tides upon the surface; they can be poisoned by a temporary satisfaction. But, the seed needs no culturing, it only need be given the opportunity to be cultured by a time devoid of expectation. Then it will grow beyond temporary limits and feed the soul with such a feeling as defies our mortal realm. That that is the whole point: true love is not a human creation, in feeling or expression. It is a divine truth; divinely controlled and divinely bestowed.
Time correct me if I am wrong.
