The Art of Loving
by Erich Fromm
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The book reminds me of my ancient love story. I let go of the unfinished computer with unsolved equations every time the bell rang to play, in hopes of seeing her walk through my classroom. Early morning sunshine shines through the small window, shining on my love for her. Her warm smile always adds to the sun 's beautiful light, making me fall in love with my student years' sunny hue. I stayed awake several hours, sweet yeast mixed with bitter smoke, I was thinking about her and I was thinking about this unrequited love. I dreamed of those distant days, the days of love that had just sprouted in my heart. Experiencing the ups and downs of youth, I realized that at some point people can be sincere, but not sure they will be honest with their entire lives. Inherently cruel, this life is a place for poor people like us not to have it. It seems the love that fades for a long time, the caring for each other is not as warm as it was at first, it can feel his heartlessness towards her, outsiders like me. Often the reason people keep trying to sustain a love affair is not because of passion, but rather because of a little guilt, some anxiety, some reverence. There is but always lonely, one another. The feelings are real for each other but it takes more time for my heart to expand. It takes time for the same pain to ripen. I must leave the joy to another human. That route itself has traded so much youth shock to get, excuse struggling to find a way, to begin with, a new object, ok. When the brilliant phoenix petals bloom on the trees' strong canopy it's like the trees are burning down. My love at the time always bloomed like those bright and almost careless red flowers.