This thing called love

I've come to a conclusion: Love can either be everything, or absolutely nothing.

 

 

We may have been dealt a cruel hand, and are doomed to the miserable existence of looking our whole lives, living in constant search for the impossible. We know how it should feel, its been recorded and written down. The media portrays it, songs are sung about it, philosophers have dissected it and studied its inner parts. We yearn for it, we want it, crave it. At times we may even demand it. But... how does one know if they truly have it?

 

Or the flip side of the coin, we may be surrounded by love. Love very possibly could be everything. If thought of objectively love is the very start of out lives, we are for the most, the very result of love. We love when in the wombs of our mothers, soothed by the thumping of her heart, the mumble of her voice. We today, still choose to surround ourselves with love. The things we love, the people we love and even the ideas we love. But alas all things can be taken away, and as easy as it is to love, how equally easy to do the opposite and hate? How easily love can be robbed from us, or lost for the lack of attention we give it.

 

And so I shall remain until it is proven either way; in constant wonderment of this thing called love.