Love is a brutal reminder of how human we really are. In its grace, we are blessed with its promises–drawn from what we have perceived from it. Yet, we really do not know what it is. We just learn to connect, over time, a few revealed puzzle pieces that let us comprehend the vaguest portrait of it. Though we come from varying perspectives, the spectrum we construe under its shadow is always the deepest we can go when unlocking the most elusive of its meanings, for we cannot, as we are brutally reminded, grasp the immensity of its inexplicable manifestations. Either we are its master, or we are its slave–we, the perpetrators, or we, the victims–we, the creator, or we, the product of a manufacturer we can never fully find out.
Perhaps the binding contract that keeps us attached to the idea of it, and all succeeding repercussions of our actions under its influence, is our emotional capacity as a race. This, personally, is embodied by what I would call a “soul,” another anomalous idea that we equally cannot fully comprehend. But we know that it is in every individual, somehow. Unless we shroud our lives with absolute darkness and sever all bonds that we think make us human, we are capable of recognizing the presence of the soul. With the slightest recognition, it acquires the power to enthrone itself at the top of all the labor of intellect, convoluting all logic we have founded and altering the internal order that we have worked so hard to build and reinforce. And when love meets the soul, a governing power starts to reside inside. Only then can we truly begin to sit down, think about it and make a choice while our faculties perish under this foreign ruler.
What should we do about it? What can we do about it? What would we do for it? What could we do with it?
We all are the basic units of measurement in the grander scale of things, and we are only allowed to move about the limits of the most distant of coordinates in this stack upon stack of planes. But when we begin to draw the line, we activate a relationship between two points. To which direction–we have yet to come across. As long as we remain unafraid of the possibilities of our states from one moment to another, we can always make a work of art out of our instances. Else, we remain scattered particles mingling with the spaces in between.
At some point, each of us has to make that choice. We can only prolong as far as our stability can regulate. Then again, we lose sight of the balance and let the load with more substantial weight pull us to what we think would be the better coordinate. See, you and I are nothing but modular variables transmitted over the contours of false hopes, delusions and fallacies. We unfortunately think that we are in control, when in fact.
We just won’t accept that we are passive mercenaries of our nature.
The Newer Slate 