Love is an anthology.
A compilation of words that are spoken between eyes; a compendium of emotions that are just about as ready to explode as primordial matter were prior to the Big Bang. It began to transpire as soon as thought arose and extricated itself from the primitive instincts, as soon as mankind realized that mating is not only driven by the need for the human species to persist, as soon as the world witnessed love triumph over evil when faith evolved into religions.
Ever since, love never ceased.
But wars prowl about the world; viral, yet fatal. When one looks at all the suffering, tainted with the dark colors of death and all of its friends, love is in absence. Like a brief flash of lightning, it can put the sun to shame with its brilliance, but also, as fast as the speed of light, it can vanish. One does not see that the root of evil may also be ‘love’ itself. That is, a love so consuming that in actuality is lust, greed, or want. What is corruption if not love for too much wealth? What is wrong authority if not love for power? What is the holocaust if not love for superiority? What is bitterness if not love for something that has been unacceptably lost?
How can something so pure be adulterated, violated to become anything but love itself?
Still, love continues. It is uplifted by the patronage of people for chocolates and flowers every February 14, a very Westernized action in reality, yet, it shows how there still exist people who are willing to devote their time for the cultivation of love. Despite the overratedness of it all, it is beautiful in its own right.
But the 14th of February is not just about those who are coupled up. It is with this frustrating misconception that bitterness turns into lonely revolutions. Love is not only about romance. If it were, how can platonic bonds survive?
Single, taken, has loved, has lost, has ached, has rejoiced: love is universal. It is not exclusive for relationships of the opposite sex alone. Those who love people of the same sex also deserve it. For love isn’t about dictatorship or imposition. For love is faith itself, and also hope. It is sharing a way of life.
It is fascinating how love can make one do so many things. It is one of the reasons why I still believe in mankind, why I am endlessly thankful to the Lord for giving me life and allowing me to experience love in its purest, most electrifying form. Similar to an autotroph who gains energy from the sun, I harvest energy from love, and that’s why I live.
To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.— C.S. Lewis (The Four Loves)
But perhaps, the best description of love is a comparison to Jose Garcia Villa’s The Emperor’s New Sonnet.