Whoever is loved is beautiful, but this doesn’t mean that whoever is beautiful is loved. ”There are girls more beautiful than Laila,” they used to tell Majnun. “Let us bring some to you.” ”I do not love Laila for her form,” Majnun would reply. “Laila is like a cup in my hand. I drink wine from that cup. I am in love with that wine. You only have eyes for the goblet and do not know the wine. A golden goblet studded with precious stones, but containing only vinegar, what use is that to me? An old broken gourd with wine is better in my eyes than a hundred goblets of gold.
The only thing that’s real about love is sacrifice. Pure honest love is pain. A mother giving birth to her child. The son of god hanging from a cross. Love has nothing to do with roses or chocolates. All of that is a mirage. You have to live a while to see through all of the bull shit and recognize real love. Ive lived long enough to know who has loved me and who has not. And I hate that I have loved so truly… a man who wasted my sacrifice. I hate that I suffered so deeply for absolutely nothing. It feels like a mother giving birth to a lifeless child. Or the son of the king of all kings bleeding for an ungrateful sinner. It feels unfair. But life is not fair. Life is fucked up.