It was foolish of me to write about love, when I actually know nothing about it.
Sometimes, I wonder if love is an impetus, a force, a ball of energy.
Or if it’s just a word.
To say something like, “I love you” could be purely arbitrary. It could be meaningless.
Because, still, sometimes I wonder how it is conjured and how it comes to existence. And the more I look at the tiniest detail, like a glance or the softness in one’s voice, the more I can’t find it. Logic doesn’t have a place here.
I wonder, if it’s the best thing in the world and people are willing to give up everything for it, then why do people hurt? And how can one breathe and live, if love is not returned?
And, maybe the more difficult question is that how does it end? How does one consume and swallow it, until nothing of it is left?
I see people fall in love, and I feel happy for them.
But I also see people fall out of love — people who are close to me — ending relationships that lasted for three or five or seven years, and I don’t know what to feel for them. Because that amount of time together almost made them into a single entity, and because I know that physical breakage hurts but emotional separation gives the worst kind of pain. And no word can probably describe it.
It’s foolish of me to write about love, when I actually know nothing about it.
Perhaps it’s an impetus, a force, a ball of energy.
Or maybe it’s just a word.
Until we give meaning to it.