AgathaCheddarbane
Bane of Cheddar
Love is preserved in the amber of autonomy.
This is the conclusion I came to after a series of questions I asked myself this past Wednesday morning. I repeated it, again and again, until it stuck.
"I love you," my mother had told me.
"I love you, too," I'd replied.
I knew it wasn't true. Not anymore. But there it was, still existing. In my automatic response, there was love. I can't deny that I didn't once love my mother, else I would never have said it before. Whatever my reason, I know I did once love my mother. And there was proof.
Can the same be said for lovers? For husband and wife? We often say that we don't really think about our words, and so they have no meaning. When we tell someone we love them, it is an automated response. Well, if it is automated it had to be set that way. We must have really thought about it at some point. Yes, I love this person. And so when we say it, it is at the very least a reverberation of love. And so I came to my conclusion, it doesn't matter if you think about it every time. It only matters that you think it once.
Love is preserved in the amber of autonomy.
Held, but untouched. Still here, to be observed.
This is the conclusion I came to after a series of questions I asked myself this past Wednesday morning. I repeated it, again and again, until it stuck.
"I love you," my mother had told me.
"I love you, too," I'd replied.
I knew it wasn't true. Not anymore. But there it was, still existing. In my automatic response, there was love. I can't deny that I didn't once love my mother, else I would never have said it before. Whatever my reason, I know I did once love my mother. And there was proof.
Can the same be said for lovers? For husband and wife? We often say that we don't really think about our words, and so they have no meaning. When we tell someone we love them, it is an automated response. Well, if it is automated it had to be set that way. We must have really thought about it at some point. Yes, I love this person. And so when we say it, it is at the very least a reverberation of love. And so I came to my conclusion, it doesn't matter if you think about it every time. It only matters that you think it once.
Love is preserved in the amber of autonomy.
Held, but untouched. Still here, to be observed.