I was recently challenged to write some sort of directionless prose that would attempt to define “love.” I cannot do that. I cannot write about that which is yet unknown to me, but I shall try.

     Surely we all have encountered some form of love, or what we have believed to be love. I am under the impression and assumption that love simply must be what you make it. It is equally a state of mind and a state of being – both; not one or the other.  It saddens me when people speak of love as though it is a person, as though it is personal. Love is not personal; it is dynamic and strange. It is in constant equilibrium, as it destroys and heals in equal capacity. Love makes you sick. It hurts you, forces you to address your emotions. It makes you feel human, and we do not want to be human. People are on a quest not to feel like people. I daresay this is a fruitless endeavor.

     We want to feel as though we are too good to succumb to earthly pleasures and desires, when we all do. A biochemist is perfectly aware of the toxins abundant in soda pop, but he partakes simply because sensory perception trumps logic.  Love is something like the toxins abundant in soda pop. Rearing and ready to rot your teeth, dissolve your bones, and contaminate your blood. We know of the risks, but we blindly believe that we are invincible towards them. We believe ourselves to be untouchable; indestructible. Love is destructive. Love is not a human, so we must not trust it. We must murder it.

     It has often been said that exposing yourself to another, and thereby rendering yourself vulnerable, draws you closer to that person. Does this hold true when that person intends to hurt you? Love is suggestive. Love is dangerous. We must avoid it.

     Love is a drug. It is seductive, addictive, and utterly intoxicating. Once you’ve had a small taste, you will crave more. You will go through withdrawal and experience incredible displeasure. You will find that your threshold for pain will increase considerably. You will feel yourself grow stronger, and this will feed your belief that you are indestructible. Ah, but you are not, you are human, you are perfectly susceptible, aching and willing and waiting – waiting to be broken. We are all just waiting to be broken.  

     Love is unhealthy. It is a sickness, a virus and a disease, and it is horribly contagious. It heals you, and then it hurts you. It induces Munchausen’s syndrome: “Look at me; do you see that I am suffering? Do you see that I love? Fix me! Fix it!”

We watch each other suffer and wish that we too could suffer so gallantly! We only bleed to compare wounds! You shall never hurt as I do, you shall never bleed as I do, look upon me, look upon my wounds – gape at them! Do you not envy them? Let me see yours. Are they as deep as mine? Did love harm you as it did me?  Did it?

Love is strange and unusual. It is unknown to me and for that I am entirely grateful.