Once again about love

There are many songs about love. She is not sighs on the bench and not walking at the moon. She will accidentally come when you do not wait at all. It is not potatoes, it has been tested for centuries of bitter and sweet human experience. She, like Ptashka, has wings, she cannot be caught in any way. And you catch - take care. She is everywhere where a person is nesting.

Love is different. And there are different love. There is a beautiful and disinterested love, elevating the soul and releasing unprecedented, locked in seven castles of the possibility of the human spirit. There is a blind, deaf, paralyzing will. Love is evil, and even how. It happens that it is obtuse, huge, Stosevnaya and Sluke. All sorts of love and love are.

There is also a special kind of love.

Love is generally irrational, otherwise it is not love, but only a cold calculation. But this irrational is somehow especially. I mean public love for a native state.

Love for the state - the breadwinner, the jacket, the berth and the intercessor - could be interpreted as love to the son -dining, if in the manifestations of this love there were no so clearly noticeable erotic component. After all, that our public loves especially hotly and reverently in his native state? She loves especially hotly and reverently the most sacred, most shameful, promising horror and delight. She loves his organs. Well, yes, the very bodies that you thought about are state security authorities.

Love is reckless, and therefore what is the matter to the point that we know about these very organs. What is the matter to the fact that these organs at all times have been a concentrated focus of all the most vile and cruel, that it was only possible to recruit through the worships of our vast Motherland. So what? “And I like him, like it, like it, and for me there is no better guy in the world,” - as a different, however, reason, singer Anna German sang.

When the authorities, as the authorities rely, were hidden from the immodest eyes of citizens, then love for them was hidden and shy. Now the organs were exposed in all their splendor, with ease took over the functions of all other tired members, and love for their beloved organs took on a truly orgiastic character.

The lover is sometimes characterized by the object of his adoration so much that he tries to guess his thoughts and appropriate them to himself. He begins to rave on his behalf. When I hear somewhere or read something like “We should not allow Kosovo ...” or “But we still finish condolize,” I think: what is so painfully reminds me? No, this is perhaps not a Chekhov shower with her "Vanya and I", this is something else. Then I understood. This is a typical conversation in human. "And for the winter, as always, we move to Paris." "We gave a dinner for two hundred people yesterday, how!" "To us, between others, the Grand Dukes laugh." "We, excuse me, will not give our young lady for anyone."

And this is love.

Love for power is rarely individual. Love for the leaders is poorly conceived alone, in the night silence. Individual love of this kind is fraught, as a rule, by clinical consequences - it is not without reason in all Soviet times psychiatric institutions were teeming with replacing each other with the brides of Lenin, Stalin, Brezhnev and other responsible comrades. No, love for power should be collective. For such love is characteristic not so much by individuals as communal bodies.

In an absolutely caricature, and therefore in a particularly visual form, such love looks in the performance of a foolish punks called “ours”. Their love takes the form of a theatrical gangbang, the rather sloppy directing of which is easily compensated by mass. Some of the skeptics (and such, ready to cynically shake all the most sacred, alas, have not been transferred in our society directed into the future) claims that the love of these "restless hearts", in a hurry, grown on the picturesque shores of Seliger, is not quite disinterested. That's what is not, that is not! What a self -interest, think for yourself. Remember the joke: "Nyurk, how do you give, by love or for money?" - "Yes, of course for love, is this three rubles?"

So for love, for love, do not hesitate, little faiths!

What can be said to be in love without memory? You can’t tell him anything. You can be happy for him. You can joke over him. You can envy. You can cheer up "love, love, while you are glad to love." You can amaze with his choice. And you can disturb him for him: after all, as long as he is in love, completely forgets that he lies in wait for him at a distance of just one step from his great love.