What does it mean to love?
What does it mean to be in love?
What is it?
I think that one of the most incredible and perpetual lessons of my life has been realizing that love doesn’t have a single definition. If you ask one hundred people to define or describe love, you won’t receive a singular response.
Why is that?
I can remember writing about love before I had any inkling of what it meant.
I recall writing about passionate kisses, smiling with eyes closed, wrapped in security.
I remember fantasizing about a yellow dress with round hope beneath watching other dreams run and play. I remember fantasizing about sitting on a porch swing feeling full of it.
I can remember writing poems and stories about love. A love that I never witnessed or experienced. A love that I once dreamed of. Only to discover that type of love only exists in Times New Roman and Arial. A love that only exists in turned pages. Love is likely one of the most abstract and inexplicable phenomena.
We live for it. We die for it. We dream it. We wake it and breathe it. We cut to replace it. We sniff and inject to forget it or remember it. We make bad decisions because we didn’t have enough of it. We search tirelessly for it.
The mistakes we’ve made in it haunt us. Yet, we get up and dust off our knees and keep going. We pretend we don’t want it or need it but our souls tell us otherwise. We need it.