There is something wrong with the way I love. Maybe there is some right way to love people, cities, objects… a way that makes you immensely happy when you are around them and gives you strength to endure their absence. 

A way in which you do not become a raving lunatic every time the name crops up in normal everyday conversations. Maybe some people love without getting so attached to their object of desire and get less hurt when they have to let go. Do I obsess too much? Have I given undue importance to love in my life? Making it the centre of everything there is. Poetry I read, films I watch, sunsets that become a part of my city…maybe they are not about love.  Maybe love actually should just be a part of life. Maybe we should do things with a certain detachment to begin with. 

Love is not about pain. It should not be. If loving would hurt so much every time, eventually, I would be and should be afraid to love. Maybe being sarcastic or cynic has its benefits. Maybe creating a self defence wall around the heart helps. 

Maybe. There might be a love in the world that hurts a little less.