love is relative; has always been.
Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise… for once you believe that, you can never stop looking for it. It becomes a craving,   a lust,   an obsession.
A need to be cared for despite it’s earlier non-existence, births.
Expectations sprout through every crack that you’ve had in every relationship with everyone and everything in your life; prologue and epilogue alike, widening into woods that you’d lose yourself in willingly; be stranded by choice, waiting for someone to come find you… save you and you’d want it to be love.
Without an expectation from your savior.
But instead, you’ll find yourself stuck there. In that gape, amongst the very cracks that those woods root in, sinking by the hope in your own emotional turmoil of your inability to find your ‘perfect’ one, wondering if something was wrong with you; if you were broken, if you were made to be alone, meant for none, and when you have all but your hands above that quagmire, you’ll realize there isn’t love that’s static… resolute… unconditional… absolute.
Love is always relative.
Has always been.
But once you’ve fallen for that lure, you can never turn your back on it. It won’t let you and it doesn’t matter if it isn’t real; it will continue to exist as long as you do and when you drown completely and feel breathless listening to your own breath bubble up into thoughts overhead, you’ll read darkness, as dark as it gets. And that, you’d realise, is of your own brewing in your blind infatuation with the concept of absolute love and that
love is always relative, has always been.




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