Scrounging, grovelling around in the dirt, looking for pennies, is a sign that one has lost their imagination. And so it comes to be in some of us. We couldn't help it. Love becomes set. We must feel pain or it is not true, or it must be blue or hell for us to tell, or just a plain ol' pain in the ol' backside sacroiliac.
Love is a major cause of dysfunction, that inspires programs of dysfunction.
A belly flop is better than the alternative The greater reality is a steady'state eternal thing. Our problem is, it is the only thing. We have to deal with it. Not too much or too little of anything, because only in relationship with something do we have the means to at least temporarily forget. Too little, one is without an effective diversion.