Men speak often of pleasure, seldom of joy. Pleasure is somewhere and something; joy is nowhere and nothing. Pleasure is planned, imagined, curated; joy is spontaneous, uncontrolled and now. Something else: Pleasure has an end. That’s where pain is.
Love is radically inclusive, has no favourites, admits no exceptions, neither waxes nor wanes. We cannot speak of ‘true’ love because love cannot be commodified, categorized or confined. “Love everything that breathes,” said Gurdjieff.