Love is as elusive and mystifying as luck, but you never get the chance to put luck on feeding tubes and respirators. Luck is either with you or not. Love is nursed along sometimes for years, when it should just be allowed to pass peacefully onto the next person. Prolonging its death is futile and inhumane.
No one is neutral on the subject of love. They are either breathlessly in anticipation of it or cynical and suspicious of it. Those who have built their love into giant barges of responsibility, debt, children and industry find it very hard to jump ship, while those who travel lightly with love can simply wait and catch the next bus bound for the promise of another love vacation. For these folks, love is a frequent visitor who carries them a ways and drops them off to smell the flowers or discharge waste, and then picks them up again when they have amassed enough emotional escrow to pay love's toll for the next jaunt.
Is love something that takes you away from where you find yourself? Is it a vehicle? Is one unable to travel through life without love to take you along? Is it possible when you are loving yourself and manually propelling yourself through the landscape of life that you actually feel things a little more directly? Is it less expensive to travel through life on one's own self-love? Is it less wasteful? Rather than using love to travel away from where you find yourself, wouldn't it be interesting to investigate where you actually find yourself more closely and comprehensively? One rarely asks themselves these questions, as one usually has plenty of distractions to keep questions like these from entering your mind or heart. Media, friends, and belief systems are a distraction from wondering what love is, does, and what love is used for. Do we really love Love, or are we only using it?