Sure, shit can be layered on top of that.
Lust. Commitment. Constancy. Stability. Partnership. Ownership. Legacy. Signification. Any combination of chemical reactions woven into a cohesive narrative.
But that real feeling—the pillowy full-body glow you feel in moments of transcendence where death doesn’t exist and you’re being hugged by a thousand well wishes— is no more than finally realizing…
“Fuckin’ A. I’m okay for being me.”
And then giving Love to someone else is as simple as embodying…
“Fucking’ A, you’re okay for being you.”
The Monk Atop Brokeback Mountain has taken this a step further.
Whenever anything is claimed about Jake Gyllenhaal’s acting performances (they are so atrocious he needs to asphyxiate in an Olympic-sized pool of whale feces, or they are so outstanding he should be fellated by thousands of tiny nubile angels for eternity-times-infinity) he takes a moment to repeat the thought: “thank you for that expression.”
That is the act of Love, friends.
No matter what was said, merciful or merciless, simply return with “thank you for that expression.”
Thank you for that expression, fellow shard of existence.
Thank you for that expression, fellow tessellation in this slippery space-time struggle.
Thank you for that expression, fellow separation from the source.