"I guess I’m kind of like your typical high school girl LOL. I think I love my boyfriend but I’m not sure. Like how do I know and sometimes I feel like love is just what you call something that becomes necessary. Like something that you are used to or something that has became habitual. So I guess I’m just asking if you believe in love or what it is. I'm not sure what it is supposed to be but just asking if it exists even?"
The same aching question of the heart. Love? Five years old, Eighteen, Forty-Seven, the same pounding thoughts:
"Am I unloved or am I so well loved that to me love has lost all its ineffable beauty, it no longer transcends all dimensions, but it resembles any other noun tossed around like “carrot.” But if I am loved then how come my heartbeat stutters, the stutter of an eight year old child lost in a classroom of children. How come I still seek the approval of those who surround me, the nameless faces that either look at me as if I am invisible, or give me too much attention for all the wrong reasons— I look to them in an attempt to find some glorified romance to fill that throbbing vacancy. But why do they have it? What have they done to earn it? Do they fake it, the way I feign a smile responding “doing well, how are you.” Or is it genuine, from some deep unseen crevice which reeks of these mythological feelings. But is anything actually genuine. Even the tree bark feels like curdled plastic, even the skies are stained, and nothing is actually there, but rather created by the dark chambers of the human mind with no regard to the laws of science or the lawless knowledge of existence. What is love then, but a human invention formed to bring light to our obscure lives, to bring meaning to the meaningless, a foreign star we envision in dreams, we stumble and wrestle to meet, but that which we can never really obtain. "
Quite easily one can conclude its nonexistence. But I must go back. It must exist. It is easier to neglect it, an idea of such power that its existence makes each one of us vulnerable to greatness and great destruction. And I will say it blatantly, as I say it all the time: love does not exist. But then I look back. I have smiled in the embrace of such affection, my heart has jolted in jealousy, broken in despair.
Then I come upon this realization-to love is to love, in occurrence, in harmony, to love is possible. Yet it is an action, hence a verb which reproduces itself in noun form: love. Therefore, to find love one must first love, and to preform the art of any action this requires energy and effort, intent and patience. To do, to create, to love. Not a foreign star, but rather well in our grasp if only we act on our hearts and open them to such power.