What is love? Dear whomever this may concern, Indeed, you may think, that this is yet another tedious letter concerning the true meaning of this frequently expressed emotion, “love.” Maybe it is, and yet, maybe it isn’t. I myself am unsure as to how this letter will roll out, and if I begin to bore you, please do stop reading immediately; love is not something I want to bore your lives with, more so sicken you with it. Love, as quoted from the Encarta dictionary, is a transitive and intransitive verb: “to feel tender affection for somebody such as a close relative or friend, or for something such as a place, an ideal, or an animal” The second choice being, “to feel desire for somebody,” and third “to like something very much.” If I were to include my personal opinion on the matter, I would most certainly disagree with all three of these meanings to a certain extent. Love can vary. It is, in some cases, a drug. A drug that kills some, and keeps others alive. It can numb you, keep you in an enclosed shell for months and years on end, but can also lead you towards the opening, and give you a new lease of life into the world around you. It is the light that shines in everyone’s lives, and the gloom that consumes us at the darkest of times. It sends us high, soaring into cloud nine with such a boost of energy and adrenaline; it is hard to imagine that we will ever crash down. It cuts our wings, and lets us hurtle to the ground with a numbing force too great to comprehend. It rearranges our priorities, turns us into mature adults, and yet makes us admire and giggle like a child with a new toy. Some yearn for it; craving the attention that is bundled with such emotions. Others loath it; knowing the dire effects of the sad expectations that the vulnerable in love have. I may be wrong. Correct me if you wish. I just know that in this vast manipulation of land and ocean, millions of broken hearts lay waiting for saviours. False hope growing older, withering as their expectations rot into the wind that blows past their unfeeling bodies. I don’t want to be one of those people. I’m sure you don’t either. But, I fear, the vast majority of you are too late. Yours sincerely, MissSparkey.
