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What is love?

What is love? Is what we call love actually love? What is it that is at play when we tell someone we love them? Is it not that this person has been pleasant to us, or given us something, sensually, sexually, or emotionally, and based on this memory of pleasure we have felt, and a hope of continued exchange, we tell them we love them. This love we call love is merely an exchange which breeds attachment, anxiety, possessiveness, jealousy, and out of all this comes great misery. So, is this misery what we call love?

Now, we are inquiring into the question of whether there is a love which is not borne of memory or hope, which is not a result of an exchange, sensual, sexual, or otherwise, and together, we are observing and understanding how all the ways we love are often divisive, narrow, and limited. If we see this, and abandon these ways totally, at once, then, what is left is love, a love that is totally new, always, simple like the breeze brushing past our face, and immense like the great mountains in the distance.


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