On Love

"It ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know 
what we're talking about when we talk about love."
- Raymond Carver



There isn't a lot to say about the little we know

about the little we've lived and know about

Love. It's a joy, a rare interlude in the moments

between other extremes. An unknown quanitity

that rarely confines itself to the parameters of

language, something others can explore freely

while others read about it in books and maga

zines without ever having any sense as to its

scope and the broad range of troubles and or

complications it is bound to bring about in

either its pursuance or dissolution. We will

commit the most selfless acts for it as well

as the most selfish. We will lie about it to

maintain it just a little longer, both to our

selves and to our so called beloved. It's

presence and absence are constants in our

all of our lives. It inflicts unnecessary pain

and suffering on us, though that problem is

largely self-administered. The hope of it is

enough to continue the illusion that it may

yet still come in even in the unlikeliest of

circumstances. Love is not a ring, it is not

a thing that can be reduced to a physical

trifle. If it exists, it must exist in a world

of platonic ideals. A world of shadows,

but a world where we are finding our way

slowly. A world where even the heart of

a hardened cynic can be made to destroy

the cast iron shell built to protect it from

harm.