Love. Love is not only a world of soft comfort but it is a beautiful thief that seeks to steal your heart, your mind and your soul; and then to throw them far beyond your reach into galaxies and universes you had never dared enter before. Love mixes you up and turns you inside out. It picks you apart into a million pieces- both tiny and big- with a tender, caressing hand and then, with all the feeling of an ancient burning star, closes its fist and opens its palm to reveal you. A you that it has pieced back together. You find that you are who you’ve always been; although not quite.
Love reaches into your fibres and touches upon the chemicals and atoms that create what you are- your human. It penetrates your human until you are not just human, but now, you are the fragile stem of a rose, the glistening droplets of water falling from a petal, you are the sky when it’s thundering; the sharp brilliant light of lightening, you are the pain of a child of war; the beauty of a true love. Love makes you everything you can be; it doesn’t gently show you your potential, no- it exposes your potential. Everything you were too afraid to be, too afraid to become, love does not allow you to hold back. It strips you back in all your glory and your beauty and your ugliness and your humanness.
Love becomes the dull, throbbing ache in your heart when you see or experience something of such immense beauty that you cannot fathom it. Or explain it. Love does not need explanation. It sits upon your shoulders, light as a feather; it caresses your face and shines through your eyes. It defies reason. Reason cannot explain love. It is a passion. Yet, even the intense red and burning flames that one envisions when depicting passion is still an understated description of love. For how are you to describe something of which man knows nothing of? We feel love. We fall in love. We dream of love. Yet, in our world comprised of journeys to the moon and God particles, not one scientist; not one Believer; not one atheist; not one man, has been able to confidently sit back and dictate the formula of love. No, men know nothing of love. How can you understand something that clasps your soul and twists and twists and twists until you become a mere shadow of your former self? How is it possible to confine this immense and transcendental force within the boundaries of the boxes and lines and square edges that is man’s world?
Love. Love saddens us and repulses us and creates a longing within us. A longing that can make a boy of eleven feel as though he has lived a thousand lives, and in each one pined for the love, for the attention, of the little girl called Mary, with the shiny braid who sits in his maths class.
Love that drives us to insanity because we mere mortals, we humans, we men, cannot comprehend or even begin to understand this entity that controls our lives, our dreams and our imaginations.
The passion; and the beauty; and the bittersweet tenderness; and the dull ache; and the smell of freshly baked bread; and the brilliance of the stars; and the smile of a lover; and the scent of home; and the new-born child; and the kindness of a mother; and the kindness of a stranger; and the kindness of a child that causes us to fall down to our knees..
This love that consumes us.
This force to be reckoned with.
Love. What do I know of love.