Curse you, Lysander.
Or Shakespeare, I suppose.
I don’t believe in true love. It’s a quaint notion, and quite an ideal, but reality will always fall short of such a lofty aspiration.
For as long as I can remember, I never coveted this discovery. It’s never been a goal of mine to find true love. I’ve been fortunate to simply have love fall into my lap, whether I was mature enough or no.
And I haven’t been mature enough. But perhaps that’s changing this go-round.
Donna Momma posted a blog entry about love yesterday. She quotes 1 Corinthians 13:4-7, a passage which describes love.
Here it is, sort of:
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
I never interpreted that as a romantic love, but as more of an all-encompassing, divine love. Yet the characteristics may still apply to its earthly cousin.
Damo writes in her blog that someone once told her to substitute “Love” and “it” with the name of your loved one and the appropriate pronouns. If upon doing that you discover some of the sentences to be false, s/he is not your true love.
Hum. Fun little exercise, that.
Perhaps I’m just thinking more about this because it seems to be one of the few things in my life that is currently secure.
It is certainly comforting.