Love seems such a foreign thing at times. I don’t think I love the way other people do. Perhaps I never learned the appropriate way. If there is an appropriate way to love. I love art mostly, more than I can love people.
Art consumes my every thought and attention. People I shove out of my brain. They never satisfy me the way art does. They hardly make me feel as happy or feel as complete. The people that haunt me are monstrous and insatiable. I want not anything to do with them.
Loving humans is brief, momentary. Loving art seems endless and easy. I never feel guilty, unfulfilled, inadequate, misunderstood, or unworthy with art. It does not judge, ridicule, belittle, degrade, or damage me in any way. Art is a love that nurtures without sacrifice.
I try to love humans always. I try to apply myself to my species with loyalty. I don’t think people want to be loved always. Why would they push you away, attack, or hurt you if they did? Though I understand the reasoning behind their psychosis, I cannot not fathom their insanity.
I understand art. Art I fathom real well. Art I can ponder on for lifetimes exhaustlessly. It seems everyday, I must find continuous motivation to keep loving the people in my life. I am considerate, kind, loving, altruistic, and they seem so unsatisfied. So distraught with themselves and everyone.
Who would want to waste time being miserable all the time? No, Art is loving. Humans, I can’t pretend to know what they are or how they love. We love so differently.
I THOUGHT LOVE WAS ESSENTIALLY THE SAME