"I love you so; I can't let go. You know it's real; the way I feel. I wanna stay. I tried to wait...on you my dear. My love's sincere."
I couldn't find a better way to conclude my love series than with the hook from my favorite song off my favorite Mary album, "I Love You" off her magnum opus My Life. Yes, this is my last in the series; not because I've struck gold with love nor because I'm disenchanted. We'll get to the reason in a few. And it's not to say that there won't be more love blogs in the future. But I feel it's time for that point eight in the 'rillo Monday, that du-rag with the cape open Monday (shouts to Mook), that East Harlem Jeff Houses raw dog, no condom Ty Monday. Look for a double up later this week. But for now...
Somewhere on my odyssey for love I was blessed with supreme insight. I was wrong for proclaiming that love doesn't love me. I put the blame on love when it was me to blame. Ultimately, I didn't love myself. I never hated myself. Rather, it would manifest itself in midst good relationships. I had significant others who truly loved me down to my dirty Polo boxers. But for some reason, I'd always find an out. I'd find a way to push her away. I ended up doing it two too many times. I managed to push not one, but two great ladies away. Two wives. Fuck a wifey. Forever plus one day status. Why you may ask? Honestly, I'm not absolutely certain myself. Maybe it comes from abandonment, first my father, then others whose strange love wasn't what it claimed to be. Perhaps it was that bullshit black men are fed about being players. You know, that keep a few in the stable dumb shit. Whatever it was, I missed out on two great ones. But that's my cross to bear. Such is life. But I did learn to love me along the way. I realized my worth, which is infinite. That means that if I remain faithful to my God, he'll bless me. That's more than good enough for me. Many blessings. 115.
P.S. I'm coming for you Gilda.