The sage Ramana Maharshi's simple question, "Who am I?", cuts to the heart of what we've forgotten about love. Our modern idea of love is a dumpster fire. It’s a transaction. A negotiation. A carefully curated performance for an audience of one, who we hope will finally, finally give us the validation we’re starving for. We swipe, we ghost, we present the highlight reel and hide the raw footage. We’ve traded the inferno of divine union for the lukewarm bath of conditional approval. We say we want love, but what we’re really seeking is a painkiller. A distraction from the gnawing emptiness that lives in the hollow of our chests. A person to plug the hole so we don’t have to feel the terrifying vastness of our own being. This isn’t a judgment. It’s a diagnosis. The mystics of every tradition—the wild-haired Sufis, the silent Taoist sages, the fierce Tantrikas—knew something we have forgotten in our rush for convenience and comfort. They knew that love isn’t a prize to be won. It isn’t a feeling you get from someone else. It is the very fabric of existence. It is the fundamental truth of who you are. Not the you that