love

I forget the danger of being praised. Praise is dangerous, Shreya, dangerous. Praise is like the gift that keeps on giving until there is nothing left to give. 

I had a stellar day today, praised for a poster presentation I was unabashedly proud of. Compliments from charming, brilliant people came spewing in from all directions, of course catering to that were shameless need of mine. I love being loved. Being appreciated for something more than just the cover I alluded to in my previous post.

I love being loved. Being loved in the purest, spontaneous, uninhibited way. And by no means do I limit this definition to romantic love, between two "lovers" per say. I love the people I work with, I love the strangers I meet at poster presentations like the one I had this morning. I love cats that don't run away from me. I love friendly baristas.

Love me, world. Please love me hard.