Until I knew what True Love meant.
The very epitome of love cannot be seen among us. The unwavering affection of a mother for a child is but a shadow. The sacrifice of a husband for a wife is but a glimpse of the real thing.
I have learned that the way that I love is often filled with expectations of reciprocation. By refusing to insist for the other to change certain habits, I am silently expecting that I should never be asked to change anything within myself too. By default, the way that I love is mostly tainted with a sense of self-entitlement. Love that is true must, to me, mean that I should never have to open the car door for myself or carry the groceries into the house. By default, the way that I love is largely circumstantial, as if love was something that was bequeathed only to people who were pegged to be deserving of it at certain instances.
I always thought I knew what it meant to love well, until I knew what True Love meant. And today I am inwardly compelled to strive to love only in the way that I was shown how – without hope or agenda, just pure expression.