Happiness is important, but it is not the most important thing. If anything, love is the most important thing, and this does not always lead to happiness. And that must be about the most talked about thing ever in the history of anything: love. There are periods myself when I can’t stand to hear that word, or see it in print, so many people abuse the lingo. I realized some time ago that I know nothing about love, and perhaps this is Socratic in the knowing nothing of it: do you even know that much, yourself? I’d perhaps like to add to that that it is all feeling, but I might also venture that that is too close to knowing, even. How many times have I said that I would speak no more about love, for how can I spout on a subject where I hold no baseline competence? It is perhaps a zen thing, that we understand it without knowing why. Oscar Wilde told us that the mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death. And such things that great, perhaps we have no chance of truly wrapping our minds around them. Perhaps then, at best, to let love go, and ride in its wave. Love, and think not how it is we do.
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