Love

There are ways of loving:

the love of things, restless, thirsty, tender in its triviality;

the love of people, or rather of their adoration, aluring and ravenous, a swamp that swallows you whole, in whose depth lies a seed of the divine, which must sprout from the cesspit of this life;

the love of glory, the hunger to one day be yourself a god, if not in heaven then in hell. Yet who can say for certain God doesn’t love Lucifer still?

And the love that conquers all,

and the love that forgives all,

and the love that bears all.

The ten thousand things love in the ten thousand ways of loving, corrupted and whole, cursed and blessed, twisted and true, your loving and their lovings, your path and their paths

are not the same, are wholly different, are utterly different even when 99.99% identical,

are not the same but for one thing, one thing infinitesimal, which some person of old called the new madness, which by any other name still smells as sweet:

Love, love, love.