Let yourself love. Isn’t that what it is to be radically alive? To be awake? Not love somebody or something. But everybody, anybody, anything. Not in the abstract, but this particular whatever, whoever. The empty whatever. What’s here right now. Just love. Nothing and no one on the receiving end. Let yourself be love. Let yourself be. Love being. Fall apart. Isn’t that it? Give over to it. Give in, give up. Don’t be afraid to feel it. What is there to lose? What’s at risk? How much can it possibly hurt to break loose, give up? Let it seep in, soak you, saturate you.
What if this were the last moment? Then wouldn’t you?
What if this were the last moment? Then wouldn’t you?
You know how when you are in love, especially newly in love, and every moment you are aware of the beloved? Nothing supplants the awareness of that one, not for very many moments in a row. You are soft, you are open, your heart is silky and fluid. This is that. Only without there being an object of your affection. No face to conjure. The love doesn’t “go” anywhere. It does not grasp, or wish to modify, or fear losing. It falls open, falls apart, and all of life swims through its generosity, like a shipwreck at the bottom of the sea, and the fish have their way with every single one of its parts. Openings abound. There is no blocking out anything. Ever.
Nothing is tight anymore, or defended. All is yielding, all is rejoicing. Yes, even what is difficult. Even pain is soft. All is allowed.
There is no more looking, no more searching. No need for explanation, or words at all. No more questions. No one need agree with you. You are no longer the person who needed anyone to agree with you. No one need be persuaded, or approved, or corrected. You are a shipwreck: porous, open, slack at all your joints, collapsed. You are completely out of love with yourself, your once-beloved integrity.
Does the cloud want to stay as it is? be admired? See how it comes apart, how readily it assumes another shape, how fleetingly it is itself.