Chameleon

After watching a movie about a pair of lovers who couldn’t be, I wondered about love. What is love, exactly? Attempts have been made, but all seems to fall short. Attempting to describe love is like having a word that could explain it perfectly at the tip of your tongue, but you’re never able to get it out. Because it proves to be elusive, we try to arbitrarily catalogue its traits by what it can’t be. Are we physicians,then? Because if we define love by what is not, does it bring us to what really is? I am not quite sure. You see, nothing exists by what it is not. Everything exists because it simply is.

For some love is a kiss or a touch. They can feel it, but is it really? Wouldn’t it be Lust lurking around making sure we don’t cease to exist? For others, love is selflessness. To love someone above and beyond yourself, to the point where your wishes no longer belong to you, to the point you are no more. I was tempted to believe love was that. But then, is it not selflessness a being in its own?

Perhaps, love is a chameleon that takes the colors of whatever it is behind of and covers itself as to not be found. Perhaps, love is a catalyst and nothing more. One that enhances whatever we are truly made of, be it good or bad. If that’s the case, why does it matter if love is returned or not, if all there’s to it is whether we are better or worse because of it? I believe love is meant to be the valve that lets our emotions and sensations overflow in order to let us know there are things that exist beyond the Realm of Words.

Are we too obsessed with possessing it that we no longer know what love truly is? Will it remain covered by what magnifies within ourselves? Will we ever know it’s true color? If we never know, does it mean love will not truly exist?

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