Love is

We must all think about it because it's so much a part of us.

I think we either seek it or avoid it, possibly oscillating between the two states throughout our life.

We sometimes wonder if it's real, even when we think we feel it.

We can worry it's going to dissolve into thin air even when we are sure we feel it.

It can be as if we feel unqualified, undeserving, distrustful of this thing itself,

As if love is the whimsy,

A floating, filigree, flimsy flittering, vacillant sceptic.

We project all our doubts and objections upon it.

You make us weak ! we wail. I hate you ! Go away and hide yourself under this cloak of cynicism.


But I know it now.

That is, I know it for myself,

Which is, after all, the only way we can know things.

It is the sum of all my life,

It's contained in a well that I can draw from.

The well replenishes itself, however much I draw;

And I can elaborate and extemporise on this image and metaphor,

But I know the understanding at its core is true,

And the mistake can only arise from my inability to communicate it

to you.