Yet Another Post About Love

Yet Another Post About Love

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The day I stop writing about love will be when I've given up on love. I don't think that'll ever happen but the world has seen stranger things. As of now, I guess you could say that I haven't quite given up yet, no matter now tempted I constantly am. You see, love is such a personal topic that everyone has their own views on it. For me, sure, I think God is love and it's representative of how love works on earth. But for other people, love is the excitement of even hearing a phone vibrate in hopes of seeing the name of that person. Love becomes unconsciously looking over at the person every few minutes, realized only when an awkward meeting of eyes hits. Sometimes I think of love as a drug of some sort because it captivates the mind into craving something that cannot be satiated by anything else but, well, love. I'm no stranger to any of these feelings and it's what makes me human. And at times I don't want to be human. I don't want to love because, for as much of an irreplaceable feeling of joy it gives, love makes a palpable melancholic darkness incomparable to anything else. There is no middle-ground and perhaps that's the scariest part. What makes love unique is the need for it to be mutual and known. The absence of these things defeat love and replaces it with a seemingly incurable bout of misery.

I think the one thing always asked is "why." Why didn't the person share what I feel and why am I not good enough. If we ask these questions, ironically, it's very much like searching for opinionated criticism. The things one person feels and thinks shouldn't be what defines our character but that's what love does. It places one opinion over everyone else's and it's the most understandable, unreasonable thing to do in the world. Understandable because love given by the person loved is the most genuine of all and unreasonable because there are billions of other people in the world who will turn criticism into praise.

Yet, all the positive things people try to make sense of comes out as fruitless and irrelevant. That's the reality of love. It is the single, strongest bond known in the world and certainly the most deadly of all poisons as well. I can name all the wonderful facets of love in mere minutes but also give anecdotes about everything else that comes with trying to love. That matter of fact is that love is something I can't really write about. It's the belief that love has been mastered, known, and experienced that fools people into skinny love.

I usually like to end my blog posts on a happy note, that all I've written earlier ultimately leads to a point that points to a brighter side, but I'm not sure I can do this with love. If me not giving up on love just yet is something positive, then let that fill my tradition. Otherwise, I find it hard to sugar coat the depressing truth. I don't want to think of love under a depressing disposition but it's hard to do when love seems to be an evanescent dream, made into reality by everyone else but me. I can think of all the points people would make to counter anything I've said but then I wouldn't be sure if they really understood the point of love, that it's beyond human comprehension but still the centerpiece of every person on earth.

One day, I think, I hope less than a year from now, I'll come back and think of all the reasonable arguments against the melancholic aspects of love. I haven't given up because waking up presents me with a new day where I'm not thinking about the unpleasant things about love, or at least not for a few more hours. The clarity of waking up is always the best because it's a brief moment of confusion, impenetrable by love. Numbness only lasts so long, though, until it comes rushing back.

Maybe I'm just looking for a remedy, not a drug.

 

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