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I thought I was in love, though I could not articulate it.

I thought I was in love because I could not articulate it. Because it could only be felt, and this profound knowledge itself proved I knew love.

I thought I was in love because so much time had passed and because thoughts of love and of him pervaded all my waking moments.

Primarily, I thought I was in love because I was so comfortable. Isn’t that how it is? Aren’t we most comfortable around those we love?

In truth then, I thought passion and time and comfort equaled love. Comfort equaled love.

But now I have learned how easily comfort can be attained. Presently, I am comfortable around the person I am with. But I don’t think I am in love, and I don’t expect to be.

And I am confused. I realize maybe I have forgotten what love is. Not only am I not in it, but I don’t remember it. What is it? What makes love, love? What does it feel like?

It’s an odd feeling. Like I knew love the way I automatically knew my Myspace password, but now it’s been a couple years and I can’t for the life of me recall it. And there is no “Forgot Love?” button to help me.

I am worried. What if I will never be able to tell comfort apart from love? For, if comfort is enough, I could certainly end up with anyone at all once enough time has passed to generate comfort. I shudder at the thought.

Yet, what if comfort and love are the same, especially as we get older? What if comfort being enough for love, simply and intentionally opens us up to more possibilities?

Strange, to have been convinced for so long of my love, and to now be unable to understand the concept at all.