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desiring, and therefore I desire you. Or I could say, "Your goodness makes you beautiful, beauty is what I cannot help loving, and there-fore I cannot help loving you." Love is seen as the perception of worth through hiddenness, secrecy, or misunderstanding. Love's truth is love's perception - where then is love's illusion? In the granting of worth where there is no worth, in finding value when there is none? Love is blind, they say. And yet we all suspect that love sees what no one else can, that love's illusion for one person is, for another, love's deepest truth, that the natural way of being, that for which we are made, is in fact love, and that love is the only dependable revealer of truth; that being in love is in fact our natural state: then, and only then, does life indeed, and not just apparently, "make sense" to us. Love, our natural state - can it be so? A natural madness - a salubrious madness - a healthy frenzy that, for a time, cures us of the | disease of daily life: the revelation of time's medicine, the continually varying beauty of the world that makes us fall in love with the world, contained in time's poison, the death that makes us fear it. 11. Its Dying "We scratch on the world's window, gaze expectantly into the world's eyes, await the world's answer, and get nothing. Or abuse. We meet with silence or disdain, or worse, a smile and a promise and then waiting, and then nothing. Then we try again. And wait again. And the eyes turn away, the eyes that used to joy in us now grow shadows at the sight of us, the air grows a degree colder when we enter a room. Where was the love that once loved us, the beauty that once joyed us? The object is here but the time has fled - 'that was then, this is  | |||
