This fierce thing called love can be so inscrutable. It is like living inside a mist. Love is all around, but when you try to touch it, to feel it, to examine it is like waving your hand through that mist. Your palm comes up with nothing but a wet sheen.

It is a comfortable, secure state living in that mist, and one can start to imagine that it is always at risk. A strong gale could blow it away at any second. One little indiscretion, on little submission to doubt and insecurity and one starts to focus on keeping the climate stable, and at some point one can cross the line to become obsessive about it. Love can then become a possessive force that is negative.

If all one ever does is watch for the signs of love waning, or jealously guard against external threats to it, then that negativity can destroy the foundation of the love. The negativity manifests itself so that the object of love can stop feeling trusted and relied upon. Possessive love is neither romantic or constructive; it can destroy as much as hate can.

Jealousy is not cute, because it is a precursor state to that deep insecurity which brings possessiveness. Mark is wrong to say jealousy is cute. Jealousy is the beginning of doubt and distrust. Trust is the foundation stone of love, and when that foundation stone is dissolved by jealousy, so must love be.

The inscrutability and malleability of jealousy must be guarded against by critical examination. If one gives in to it, one can start to see patterns and signs everywhere. Particularly where none exists. The thought of destroying what we have because I am insecure and awkward make my stomach cramp. This is part of the poison of jealousy, because it makes one start to guard against imaginary shadows.

I need to get a grip on jealousy when it grips me, like it did today. Luckily it doesn’t happen too often, and so far I’ve mastered it. But when it does strike, I need to go away, and look at it critically, and kill it in my head with reason and arguments. My heart would rage and erupt and ruin everything. My volcanic emotions are not my master. My temper is not my king. My jealousy is not my truth. I distruts hunches, intuition, and gut instincts. They are things of the heart. A heart is deceitful and lies habitually. One just never knows when, and need to take care.

Attractive other people being nice and charming to Mark does not mean they are flirting with him. And it does not mean that Mark would realise after a five or ten minute conversation that he could have it so much better with that attractive person than with me. It is insane to think that which my heart whispers sometimes.

To utterly mangle a Frank Herbert quote, his litany of fear, which I have on my wall: “Jealousy is the love-killer. Jealousy is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my jealousy. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the jealousy has gone there will be nothing. Only love will remain.”

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