It can turn you into a philosopher, a poet, a stalker and even a diabolical murderer.
Love is dumb.
There, I’ve said it.
It makes you go weak at the knees, robs you of the little sanity you were born with, makes you think of Yours Truly, keeps you up waiting, makes you bring up Yours Truly in random conversations when everyone could’ve done without an ode to this said person- simply put- it makes others around you want to throw up.
It’s that strong. And such a total waste of heartbeats.
Fast forward>> the inevitable that happens when Cupid is bored- it makes you burn letters, toss and turn in the night. Little scraps of paper with doodles on it, all crumbled up. Makes you delete text messages, wipe out your mail box and burn your camera’s memory stick. All e-memories reset but yours. It turns to hate now.
And it breaks you up from the inside.
Was that love at all or serotonin overdose? I’d gladly go with option B. I can’t really tell anyway. For all I’ve ever “loved” anything mortal is my cellphone and everything that keeps me in cyberspace and my bookshelf (sans the textbooks) and my love has never wavered, I kid you not. And I refuse to believe it has anything to do with hormonal imbalance, thank you very much. In fact, I think it is a real feeling in only very rare cases- and a physiological response in most (and the latter in my opinion is not even fit to be categorised as love. Yeah, the poets had it all wrong.)
Love (I wish we had a synonym for this), when pure, is that drive that once produced a generation of people so passionate that they changed the world. Oh yes, I’m talking about the Muslim Renaissance, aka the Dark Ages in many European textbooks.
Love happens when the heart reunites with its Master. Love is when you Remember Him. Love is when you stand up in prayer all night. When you think of little else. When nothing else really matters. When you bring Him up in conversations. When you seal a commitment till the worlds collide. And when you finally meet Him, He has a thousand doors open for you. That’s what love is.
The rest can be sent to literature compost bin.