Halves of a Whole

Love gives us the illusion that we are incomplete, that we need another, (key word need) to make us whole.

I don’t believe that without love we are broken. Halves of a whole. That can’t be true.

Maybe a part of us is always searching, perhaps we are meant to have another after all. But what if we have it all wrong? Maybe the only purpose of finding another is to create, to make another. Finding another to make another. Yes, maybe we’ve had it wrong for years. Maybe that’s why there’s heartbreak and pain and brokenness. Maybe love is only something we created because we were lonely.

Maybe love isn’t real.
What a sad world that would be.

But any worse than thinking you’ve found love, and it’s not real after all?

We are not incomplete without another. I have one heart, not a half. It beats. I breathe. I’ll be fine on my own.

Now does that make me a realist, or a cynic?

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