Love, even the sound of it repulses me, I once said.
But what is love?
They always tell you it's more than just a feeling.
They tell you it's the thing that makes you wake up when the baby is crying so your partner can sleep, or the sacrifices you make for someone, or the hundreds of people you brush away in loyalty and dedication to your partner.
But maybe the above isn't love. Maybe it's Consideration. Sacrifice. Loyalty. Dedication. all in their own name and their own right.
Maybe marriage is Commitment. and motherhood is Motherhood, Paternalism, Protectionism.
Love.
Maybe love is entirely disparate and sits on its own iron throne. Maybe love is just a feeling. Maybe love protects itself. Maybe love is selfish--the want for the feeling to go on and on. An unwavering thing, which lasts amid the odds. Something untainted by practicability and the rational mind. Something to be divorced from the essentials in life, these essentials the clever brain clutches onto for dear life.
Maybe love is letting go of the walking stick and choosing to fall.
Something great something scary, almost like a curse.
Something the poets write about, the philosophers dream about. The reason people choose not to marry, part of the reason people do. The reason people fight against conventional relations, start movements, the reason people dream and crash and burn. The reason the world is filled with music, stories, books and art. The reason the world is filled with beauty, and tears flow abundant in a stream that waters crops and prompts them back to living.
Maybe Love is something we know to run to, to swallow us whole and to take us apart.
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