The Uninhabited Space of Love

Thursday, April 10, 2025

Real love requires no key.
It doesn’t move into a house, cling to shared furniture, or measure itself through bills or square footage.

Cohabitation, in its dominant form, is often a substitute — an attempt to make a bond feel real through forced physical proximity, because actual presence has faded.
What institutional couples call “life together” is often a quiet disengagement of the self.
A logistical fusion meant to avoid lucidity.

Because true intimacy is gone, people cling to routines — the bed, the fridge, the schedule.
The everyday becomes an alibi.
They “love” by inertia, because disentangling would be too disruptive: selling the furniture, redrawing boundaries, moving out.

Living love does not impose itself.
It doesn’t cohabit — it co-exists.

It listens to the frequency.
It respects the rhythm.
It knows when to come close and when to retreat.
It proves nothing, demands nothing, installs nothing. It renews itself in every moment.
Not from duty, but from recognition.

A lucid love doesn’t need walls.
It can live between distant bodies, as long as the frequencies are aligned.
It exhausts nothing. It consumes nothing. It watches, silently.

Sharing a space means nothing if each person isn’t first firmly rooted in their own axis.
Otherwise, the shared space becomes a site of confusion, projection, passive violence.

The space of real love is uninhabited —
Not because it is empty, but because it is unclaimed.
It remains available, alive, free.
And it is precisely this uninhabited quality — this refusal to settle — that makes it truly inhabitable.