“Only the shallow know themselves.” Oscar Wilde.
First, you need an absence of love—or anything close to it. Second, you need to resist the fact that this is in fact, your reality.
I tried to write a love poem about someone, this week and failed. Also, I’m not even sure that I’m all that good at love poetry. There really wasn’t any love to speak of. There were postulations, fictive projections of what I wanted to see taking place. And more than enough stretches of credibility: well, what really happened then was this and this is what it means. Denying and or reinscribing one’s reality is a hard habit to break. I am working on paring down my penchant for over-analysis and taking what people say as the gospel—making them Christ and Allah (or whomsoever) of their own self spaces.
If people say they are simple, I’ll let them be. How dare I doubt that and give myself the extra work of deciphering what they really mean or what their true intentions are because I suspect there are other things underneath the surface. (There usually always is though and people are rarely as simple as they make themselves out to be, aren’t they?) and this leaves one in a semi-constant state of looking over one’s shoulder (or theirs), constantly on the look-out for an abyss, some darkness, some cruel consternation that you know is hiding just behind their irises.