Love. Frankly, the form of the English word is insufficient in capturing the full gamut of the term, emotion, what have you. Honestly, it’s not surprising given that language itself is a restrictive medium in conveying thought and undergoes so many transitions prior to being verbalised or written that really only a fraction of the full thought is communicated, which is frustrating, and then on the receiving end it undergoes further mutation until only the most obtuse of things remain. So we scorn our inability and respect Shakespeare. Perhaps then, the written word for love is apt as it embodies the very struggle most undergo in love. Every love.
I do not think love is the most powerful emotion. Melancholy supercedes it as the most prevalent and persistent of the emotions, precisely because of its mildness, such that it subtly ensnares you in its throes. Love is more a remedy easily forgotten, but the reminder is useful.
There is a likelihood that we have, at some point or other, chastised the winsome fruit of love and prided ourselves on the jaded understanding that enriches the furrows from which it grows. So when genuine emanating love has presented itself I, for one, have given up trying to say it outright.
At this point, love to me is best represented by the comfort of being able to lie in my bed, and know that inside another room somewhere on this planet there is somebody warm going about their routine, and that at some point their thoughts will turn to me as mine have to them.
Now for fuck’s sake TAY, go and read Edgar Allan Poe or Oscar Wilde’s short stories, and have done with this public rumination and pontification.