I’ve felt it for a while, now, and I admit that I kinda knew that I should be expecting it, but it always seems to throw me off. Love is just different for me, I think. More whelming, more permanent. Never reducing; either unchanging or growing. Glowing.
It isn’t fair for me to claim to understand how other people love. I really have no way of knowing exactly how they love. What love means to them, how it feels, how it pushes them. I can know how it is in me, and I can listen to what they say and do and try to understand (not with my head, but with my heart) what love means when it invades their lives. I cannot know their love.
I can get a pretty good idea, though. I’m pretty familiar with love in its many permutations. I’ve done quite a bit of reading on the subject by experts, and by amateurs, and I’ve got a lot of hands-on experience and heard many first-hand accounts of love. Because Love is important to me. Because I want to get it right.
I guess I may have done the same thing to other people in the past, but I never loved them. I may have humored them, but only because I cared about them and could sympathize with their feelings of love. I don’t know if I could ever reach a point where someone that I loved was expressing their love for me in one way or another and not be swept up in it and just love them right back with increasing intensity. I don’t know if I could ever have someone I love (who loves me) ask to spend time with me and just humor their request out of courtesy.
Love inspires blind passion in me, when reciprocal.
