Love does not exist.
Love does not exist in the same way that colours do not exist. Look at the sky. If the sun is out (In all its yellowness) then it is blue. And you can quite confidently point to the sky and say "That is blue". On the opposite side of the world someone maybe not so dissimilar to you can point to the sky and say "That is blue", and know without a shadow of a doubt that the sky is blue. But what is this "blue"?
You know a "blue". (Let's call him) Franco, across the sea knows a "blue". But is there a difference? Maybe, perhaps, what you call "blue" Franco would call "green". And what Franco calls "blue" you would call "blurple".
There are scientists, I am told, that have proven that one man's colour is, in fact, another man's colour; that red means danger and passion and fire, and blue means sadness and peace, and pink embarasses inmates, no matter who you are, where you're from. Maybe I am an ignoramus but I cannot seem to wrap my head around how these professionals could see through the eyes of others and say "Your sky is the same colour as my sky, and that colour is blue, blue, blue". They have not looked through my eyes, and they cannot see my sky.
And so, I tell you, colours do not exist. Nobody but me has seen the colour of my sky. And when I am gone, my "blue" will go with me, and be no more. In a way, it never was, since it existed only in my head.
Love is like colour, I say. When you are gone your "love", your "blue", your "number three", your "God" and your "heat" go with you, and nobody will ever feel or know them again.
So relish them, while you can.
Created: Sep 24, 2009Document Media