Just because I have such an odd definition of love doesn't mean I don't suffer from, what I affectionately call, loving the idea of love. I call it many names: falling in love with love, loving love, desiring acts of love, the sleeping-in-public-transit affliction. Possibly its harshest name that I give it is being blind.

I found myself today, with every breath, with every step, and with every smile and happy sight I saw in my surroundings; falling in this kind of blindness. I see two beings, holding hands, laughing, hugging, kissing, and enjoying the company of their beloved. I sigh, afterwards, and say "My... Wouldn't it be wonderful to have someone to kiss, and hug, and caress, and laugh with like that? Wouldn't it be nice to have someone to go home to, to embrace deeply, and say 'My dearest, you are so special, and I love you with my every breath." Then, I grunt, and say "Wouldn't it be wonderful, to be blind, and never-ever see again; to amuse myself in this distortion of love?"

In all these cases, I don't love that person that I would perform those actions with; notice that there was no person there listed. I am in love with the actions, the feelings, the sudden flash of pleasure released from those actions; I am in love with the idea. It wouldn't matter anymore who the person is, or what the person values, or how the person actually feels about you. What only matters is that I am getting these lovely, lovely things that bring me much pleasure. Is that really love — to be with someone just because of those things, and to be blinded to the entire reality of the world and, especially, to the awesome uniqueness of all beings? I think not.

Love requires freedom, love requires awareness. Love requires that eyes be open to the entire realm of reality. With my eyes open to reality, I understand that I am happy and I require not such delusions. If I wish to love someone, it would not be because someone does these things for me, but because I choose to love him, because it is right to love him, for his entire free being and ever-changing soul is so wonderful to my eyes that I dare not imprison him with my superficial desires that cause blindness.

I know this to be true because, if I open my eyes and actually see, I know that I have so many friends I can call for this insanely stupid request: "Meet me at the train station. We'll ride all the way to the end, and I just want to hug and hold you. You are my friend, and I love you." Because I love my loved ones, this action happens. It isn't the reverse: because these actions happen, I love you.

Love comes first. Love comes first. Love comes first...