For those of us who are too sensitive, love is a painful experience. Our lovers become cruel gods that ignore our worship and ask of us offerings that tear at the flesh of our hearts, until all that is left is an empty shell of a heart, our minds dulled and our souls stripped of their life. We bow before these idols that we call lovers. Our prayers fall upon arrogant ears that inflate their pompous egos.
Let us instead worship love itself!
Is it not more satisfying to worship the thing we want most?
Let us go straight to the source!
Why worship a demon when you can worship the prince of darkness?
Why give praise to a limited saint when you can bow down before the proprietor of the infinite?
Love is dead like the Greek goddess who once embodied it. Venus has become a decrepit, old woman, her body leaving no trace of what it once was. Wrinkles ravage her body, her hair gray, like the useless hope in the minds of today’s lovers. Her eyes, once bright and vibrant, are now dark and dim, portraying sadness and erasing all memory of happiness.
‘I love you’. Three words. Each word is comprised of one syllable. So, simple. Yet, they are so hard to pronounce and so misunderstood. They confuse the brain, and torture the mouth at the thought of uttering those words. I wish I could have said those words…I wish you could have said them. Those three, stupid, words. But then again, it wasn’t the words that hurt me. The words weren’t the cause of our rupture.
We were the cause.
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