There is a difference between making love and making sense, and one of my least favorite things about the human race is that we never seem to understand that. If our life isn't picture perfect we focus on the fact that we're alone. But, are we really? I've touched earlier in the blog about friendships, about family, about loving oneself. I can't possibly believe that any of us are really alone. And, if that is the case, can we not find solace in the fact that people care?
"If I do not find my love, I will be incomplete."
I will not deny that I worry about not having someone to experience the butterfly filled feelings of romance, however, I refuse to believe that my problems could be solved by discovering someone else.
Yes, life - as a whole, is a big mess of impossibilities, but making sense of it by using other people, such as using medicine, will not pass.
Love, can mask pain, it can help (and I stress help) aid it, it can cause it, but I cannot see it being the end all be all. Not anymore.
I'd rather make sense than make love.