Yesterday I thought about something so frustrating it baffled me. The ideal of love versus it’s realities. Someone I know used to tell me that love itself is chemicals in the brain, signals the body sends, and yet even in my most jaded and awake moments I’d like to believe it’s more than that. For me as an author a writer, someone very passionate, id like to believe it is more compelling than this. It is it’s own animal, with its own story,and less of the scientific and the biology please. Love is expression, of the highest order of the truest self. We unleash a secret part of ourselves, gated and protected, letting the world creep in. We are both with and without form, a noun and nameless, a print, and an invisible stencil upon someone’s heart. When you go through loneliness the ache is so bad, like a starving child in a third world country, you need that human interaction , that depth of conversation, those moments to admire someone separate from you, those moments to let the heat suffocate your sanity. Here’s to love and all its madness.
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