What is love? If we try to believe what poets, playwrights, and
writers tell in their exaggerated accounts, then love is nothing more than
a description—a scribe used to symbolize those that could not be put into
words, those whose meanings were absurd.
But love is all that, then its meaning would be gibberish. There would be
no meaning at all because it only denotes that which cannot be explained.
It does not give light to the meaning of love but instead illuminate those
things that could only be explained by love. Again, it's useless.
If you haven't noticed yet, love cannot be really explained. Even the
wisest person who ever existed would find it very arduous to delve into
such matter. It would not even assure an answer, sans some possible
explanation that when carefully scrutinized would yield nothing but tested
philosophy phrased in warily selected words.
As I've told before, it had been all too wrong to try and explain love. It
was simply unexplainable. It doesn't matter that it makes the world go
round, that it makes life complete, that it was as complex as hell. It is
better left alone, better savored with experience and better let roam
freely in every heart—every freaking mind. Because love is not love. Or
maybe love is love. It is better left that way.