Everyone says “I love you,” but beneath the words, who is actually loving whom?
Think about it: when you are in a deep sleep, where does that love go? In that state, you don’t even know yourself—so how can you claim to love another? Most people walk through life in a similar kind of slumber, unaware of their own true nature, yet they insist their feelings are real. Then, the moment those feelings fade, they are quick to cast blame on the other person.
I wonder if “love” these days is nothing more than a blind affair. We talk about it constantly, but unconditional love—true, selfless devotion—seems nonexistent. Maybe Meera’s love for Krishna was the exception, but I struggle to find examples of that purity here on earth.
If true love ever existed, the stories haven’t reached me. And if it doesn’t exist? Then perhaps I am blessed, because I have failed at it so miserably.
Someone told me today: “If you are awake, you can love truly. If you are asleep, you are only pretending.”
Is that the secret? Is consciousness the only thing that makes love real?