Is Love a Mental Disease?
Is Love a Mental Disease?
When falling in love, we feel something going pitter-patter and that is your heart being silly. But is love just a matter of disease and cure?
The amazing Dr. Seuss says. “We’re all a little weird, and life’s a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.” “Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.”
You can be sure it is better to love wisely, however, to love foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all. Love is not measured by how many times you touch each other, but by how many times you reach for the other. But, what is the opposite of love; but a smoke made with the fume of our sighs, composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies?
It is not hate, as those with broken hearts believe; it is really indifference. There is nothing more hurtful than feeling insignificant and unloved by those we hold dear. “Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that,” said Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
According to psychologist Elaine Hatfield, there are two basic types of love, compassionate and passionate love. Compassionate love is characterized by mutual respect, attachment, affection, and trust. Compassionate love develops out of feelings of mutual understanding and shared respect for one another.
Touching and caressing are possibly the most important and enhancing aspects of any relationship. Massage helps you get back to the basics and to rediscover hitherto forgotten delights. Sex is not love. We all must remember our partners may love having sex with us but not love us. Love is not flirting, kissing, sex or sleeping together. Love is how you feel when absent of these things.
“The best love is the kind that awakens the soul and makes us reach for more, that plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds, and that’s what you’ve given me.” – The Notebook. It is my experience without reason that lasts the longest.
From Mark Twain’s book titled, Following the Equator, “We should be careful to get out of an experience only the wisdom that is in it and stop there.” There is great wisdom in loving others.
There is also great wisdom in getting dumped. I often look back at my past, again and again, trying to find the one moment in time when I settled for loving rather than being loved. I finally came to the conclusion that those like me are chosen to devote our lives to doing the impossible.
We know we have a choice, but we still dance to the melody of “If you can’t be with the one you love, and then love the one you’re with.” We should be given credit for the courage it takes to give more love than we receive. No one has the right to say what is and is not a valid love or romantic relationship.
Only you can be the judge. Based on the value of your relationship, love has many forms, and many faces and all are special. Opening your innermost self to your partner can be difficult, but it is essential if you want your relationship to flourish and grow. “If there’s any magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone, sharing something.
I know, it’s almost impossible to succeed, but…who cares? The answer must be in the attempt.” – — Before Sunrise. Soul mates are extremely rare, but they exists. It’s sort of like twin souls tuned into each other. The best kind of love is the kind that awakens the soul and plants a fire in our -hearts.
It attacks the head, the heart, and the senses simultaneously. There are no impossibilities, and the only remedy for love is to love more.
I’ve heard comedians say everybody has the right to be ‘miserable in marriage,’ even homosexuals. I can understand the biblical rejections to same-gender unions. I think it’s necessary to realize that homosexuality is found in over 450 species; where homophobia is found only in humans.
“To understand is to forgive, even ourselves,” says Alexander Chase. So, whether a couple is made up of two women, two men, or a man and a woman; it shouldn’t matter to others. Marriage is about love, compatibility, and forgiveness, not gender or sexual orientation. It is our diversity that makes the world a fascinating-go-around.
Carrie Underwood, a popular songstress, said, “As a married person myself, I don’t know what it’s like to be told I can’t marry somebody I love…I definitely think we should all have the right to love publicly the people that we want to love.” At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet,” says Plato. Don’t agree?
“Love is something sent from Heaven to worry the Hell out of you,” says Dolly Parton. Luckily, we have infamous poets, musicians, artists, and philosophers to put this elusive and complex feeling into words. “Love is the answer to everything. It’s the only reason to do anything. If you don’t write stories you love, you’ll never make it. If you don’t write stories that other people love, you’ll never make it.” says Ray Bradbury.
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Uplifted by Angels
I pray to be a celestial artisan, that my soul sprinkled with passionate thoughts of God’s love, when I’m tired, let their angelic wings fan me with healing energetic breezes, light my eyes with the lamps from God so I can see what is right or wrong, bless me with “celestial” knowing, wit, wryness, color and an angelic sense of timing, and let my optimism fall like seeds to the moist warm ground and take root in the footsteps of others, especially the most I love.
Waiting on Love
Here I am like every other flower in the garden drinking in the pearled dew, and hour after hour a female willow trembles knowingly at our pain, a swan sings close by, both of us living by breath alone, Sometimes I moan a little in self-pity,
“Where is my God, why has he forsaken me?” I shake my fist towards the sky; the weeping willows cry for me, we’re all feeling disowned, We’re weak and weary standing here at attention, dreaming dreams no mortals dare to dream, the silence unbroken in my pearl-less pelvis while the weeping willow packs her trunk for our trip to Nevermore…”
My first choice is to open the windows and tear the plastic away,
and let the sunshine thaw out my aching bones,
winter depression and other damages unseen,
Soon my poems will blossom like seeds,
their roots flourished by the warmth of a sun gone wild,
I will kneel and give thanks as I struggle out of my skin
like a sleepy poet ready to dangle metaphors from my pen,
we will all drink, eat, and feel more;
when we touch, smell, and breathe more,
we are so privileged to have two working hands and hinged knees
to help plant the seeds that come to life in the Spring.
White on White
I like to play the what-if game.
How would we live in a world without color?
I imagine living with white on white would be better than black on black.
When I am shuffling through my mind,
I imagine I would not know if I were winning or losing
with a deck of solid white cards
or a set of white checkers, without colors I would not know when to stop,
to slow or go, I think about all the beautiful flowers and butterflies
and what their colors mean to me,
I am also thinking about white pigeons cooing and cawing,
hiding from white cats, hurling and twirling themselves into the air,
all for naught,
and I am thinking about white birds,
looking for white worms crawling around in white grass,
and all their white bellies hungry for the prey they cannot see,
I am thinking of white sea-caps on white rolling seas,
and a white sailboat in distress, how would it be saved?
How could we be taught our ABCs with white chalk on a white chalkboard?
We can live without many things around,
but who can happily and safely live without nature’s colors
of red, yellow, orange, blue, green, black, and brown?
Our Designer Future
I wrote this poem thinking about how our world would be if science begins designing kids in test tubes. Then there is the ozone thing. What will humans be like if all is bad becomes true sometime in the far future? We would wake to find…
Pimping out Love
Some love affairs go on too long in our heads,
the truth is we poets can easily become our own sad poems,
half falling over ourselves day and night,
wearing mufflers, blinders and Mona Lisa smiles,
our blowfish egos becoming nightly bridge walkers,
roof servants, or chimney sweeps,
So Indefinable, undeniable, breathing in the soot of our heart’s desires
and all the rest of the idiocy we poets fall heir to,
when conjugating our hearts and pimping our love into poetry.