Like a disinclination towards love; for some, an analogy of sex to the destruction of the Star Wars death star. I suppose it comes from an injury- some organs are more sensitive to scar tissue. and with age the methods of defense against the pains of heart that come from openness become more and more sinister. At some point there is the pure necessity of adaptation: to learn to enjoy the pain until it disappears- or to accept this balmy existence as it is. I can learn to enjoy walking 15 blocks in bare feet at 5am- a direct result in pride and the proving of your own gender. But I don't understand this ironic anger over mystery: Love's one true passion. But how could we expect the temperament of love to abide, when we do nothing but ruffle its feathers in an attempt to get this flightless bird up in the air?
But the truth is, love gives more than one chance; because it's purposes are not destructive, but productive. We have only to abandon our preoccupations and enjoy things for what they are; we have just to choose which things we would like to last a long time.
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