A love that is a little higher than loving one self would be loving the world.
Nothing is more easy. The world prizes love for the immortal, for the absolute, for the always; base, gross emotions are reserved for animals. But with the coming of certain thoughts of our own mortality, of our not being here forever of our not belonging here, I don't know if it was cheap sentimentality or a legitimate call from the source of all wisdom, that I felt a certain sorrow for all the insignificant things in this world.
It was sudden, while I was at the public urinal, recovering from my regular dose of anxiety attack: this pain, that this disease has so ruined my life, this will not be forever; I am going to miss this. And I felt a tingle run through my arms, as I hear senseless noises from outside, and see things without weight. The brutality of eternal eyes opening up shuts off my mundane senses, and ended the warmth streaming from my body.
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