War is love because we fight for what we think we love.
Murder is also love because we love the money, our country, family, or the ideals and beliefs we kill for.
Hate is love for we hate because what we love is gone or threatened.
To steal and rob is love because we steal the things we love to have.
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Fear is love because we love our health, our lives, or social status.
To conquer is love because we love the power, and power is love because we like to assert our own being, this thing we love so dearly.
What we call “good” is love, like what we call “bad,” and morals are there because we love to judge on wrong or right.
It’s why we punish. Ourselves and others. It’s “out of love.”
Out of love comes all and everything. Our acts of love. The good and the ugly. It’s all … love-able.
But acting out of love is one thing, being love is something else. Being love needs no motivation nor action. Being love is being blind. And seeing nothing — one can only touch and feel.
