On love.

Love is such a funny concept. I grasp the surface. I read the tales. It’s so clear and so blurry. Yet so simple. The reminiscence of the beholder. The joy of breaking barriers of time and space. The history you no longer hold closely. A full-body breath experience. The thought of peace as you behold the existence of those you catalyze dear. An industrial revamp. The podcast liner that sticks because you’re hopeful if there are pens you wish to write with, someone would fill in the blanks of synonyms. It’s the exact same word, just phrased differently.

It’s the one whose existence cuts the side of your face as if they’re no longer in your life, but their existence in someone else’s novel is a blessing. And after 2 years, you look back and still wish to read it cover to cover. Even if there is a pending chapter you could attend, but consciously choose not to. Other times, you express too much, hoping that’s the smooth ending you were humbly hoping for. In most cases, the writer hype doesn’t translate into a second volume. A reason, a season, or a lifetime. Those are the buckets. Why then wish for things to be different?

As for identity curves, it’s not a crisis, but a crash. A sick search for oneself, in deep worries of who you once were, but won’t ever be again. As for times and circumstances, you won’t become. It’s a solo journey. Nihilistic optimism. That’s a motto. As for the life you once lived, you let go. The exhaustion of the hustle is the rainfall far away from home.

There are other books you could read. As reading becomes a perpetual activity, you start building up a rainbow shelf. And you notice how if you only read red and blue books, you’ll get similar insights. Perhaps one day you’ll be brave enough to ask the librarian for a green book.

Home is stillness. A coming of age. Cozy cinema on a Sunday. Spontaneous dinner nights. Finding a new hobby, oblivious of the compound timeline it takes to build up a skill. It’s not about the outcome. It’s about being so unapologetically yourself you don’t take complacency as a guiding principle. You don’t chase. You attract. And you are.

And for that, you believe in nothingness. The precious seek of abundance in sitting still. Of encountering a foundational friend and feeling like you can openly share. You might even overshare at times. But you know you can. You’re not really friends, as there is a different level to the word. You are comfortable. You don’t hope. You don’t expect. But deep down, you simply know. And you breathe again, in your own company. You look outside the bubble and choose yourself. As life is better in private. There are comparisons we can do. Metaphors we can adapt. But we’re still running away. What are we running away from? There is no such thing as a waterless plant. How can we then grow? Whatever you fill in below the prompt. That is love.