PolyProse

I don’t think love is a feeling. We feel happy that someone we love has succeeded. We worry that someone we care about has gotten hurt. We fear death will break into our home and kidnap the people we hold dear. Love is too complex to define with simple terms.

Love is a system of self-extension. We see those we love as reflections of ourselves. It’s not just your child; it’s your free spirit. It’s not just your grandma; it’s your collective wisdom. It’s not your mother and father; it’s your compassion and stoicism. They are pieces of you that found their way into others.

Love is a process of transformation. We study the ones we care about. We learn what they enjoy, the things they fear, and the dreams they have. We then steal those pieces for ourselves. You find yourself with new delights, sudden terrors, and novel wishes.

Love is a form of perspective. A mundane facial feature becomes the most unique. A cheap perfume evolves into a desired aroma. A promise becomes a lifetime. A protruding belly signals an immeasurable hope, and immense pain becomes a bright future. When you return home, a button left on the floor turns into a choking hazard. A countertop becomes a sharp edge. The bottle of cleaner left on the table resembles poison.

Love is a virtuous monster. It feeds on apathy and obsession. It is terribly selfish and wholly altruistic. Sometimes we inadvertently cage the people we love. While they scratch at the bars, we tell them about the freedom in exploration.

Love is a question without an answer. It is not a destination to be reached. It is not a set of facts to be memorized and recited. It is not a chemical reaction that can be measured and altered. Only illusions and distilled suggestions of it can be bought.

Love is a spark, a furnace, and a fog.