Maybe You Don't

    How foolish you are, little person.  How completely blind you are to all around and in you.  You dare to throw around words of love, when you have no idea what love is.
    Love does not just come into being.  Love is not just attraction or infatuation.  Love is, when true and real, a force in itself.  It must be, as it is battered and tested through time.  It is hardened in a fire of conviction and commitment, yet you don’t consider this at all.
    Your love is a clay.  Moist and cool, you move and mold it into the shape that suits you now.  Never fostered, never fired, it remains weak.  A weakness you celebrate, for when love fails you, it makes it easy to ball up and restart.  
    You will never find a use for this love, though.  It will add nothing to your life, as you add nothing to it.  The clay will become dirty and dry, begin to crack.  Each reforming becomes harder, until it resembles nothing at all, a pile of worthless dirty.
    If only you could see beyond the initial flame of passion.  You see love like a match.  You strike it, and it bursts into flame.  An ignition of heat and light, burning through whatever material you have for it.  You can try to pile on fuel, but ultimately, fire dies.  You remain, perhaps exhausted by your efforts, covered in ash.  
    It must be so lonely, it must be so maddening.  You must be so frantic all the time.  Those around you must shake their heads as you run to and fro, but how can they show you what you refuse to see, what you find yourself always to busy to contemplate.  Perhaps those around you know no better themselves.
    Sit down, little one.  Breathe deep and slow, and consider what you want to build, not what you hope to find.