Love is glorified. Love is lovely.
It feels simplified and easily accessible. Once the real flattering is experienced, I want it again. The more I am satisfied with it, the more it will glorify me. But when it’s excessively used as the appearance of a proud owner, it will become even artificial.While I try to access it for the next high, I willingly suspend my disbelief of it coming back through a quick grasp. Love does away with complications. Love is lovely. When I use ‘love’ all-over-the-place, I deny my authentic human experiences of both miserable and excited. I feel obligated to

be aroused when I look at other people’s thoughts, feelings, and experiences. Being alive simply has complications. It is essential. Lovely, but fucked up. So, show me something, show me something, something I can genuinely see.