"We don't control what we love"
When the love is truly intense it cannot be controlled, nor can it be put in an enclosure. It seeps out, seeking the light of day, blindly grasping through the spaces you stifle it in.
It follows whatever flimsy source of light it senses, feeling out the tiny gusts of air that could give it respiration. It listens to the tiniest sounds of dripping water, flowing ever so slightly on the cave walls, depositing minerals creating rock formations a few million years afterwards. Like a steady accumulation of affection that transcends through time and space; a love that knows not time and place nor ageing and distance.
It pursues that taste of care and fondness and chases the affectionate devotion even in times of drought, when it feels abandoned and starved for attention or even forgetten the existence of — it persists and lives and carries on for a morsel of tenderness — even in the face of desertion.
It sticks to the skin, digging onto the muscles and resides on the bones. It gives strength and substance and meaning, provides warmth and safety, just from a mere mention of one's name or even their very presence. It exists and exists and exists and takes on whatever form is necessary for it to continue existing.
We don't control what we love. We simply love, fully and thoroughly, without expecting anything in return, and thanking the gods when morsels are given to us back. We simply love, and when it resonates strongly and radiates brightly, the love gets acknowledged and seen. To be seen by others, this love that persists, to hear their name spoken as a token of understanding from an outsider looking in. For someone else to observe and see and recognise that this love exists, without rhyme nor reason nor prompt, simply stated as a matter of fact.
We don't control what we love. We simply pray to the universe to have that love, love us back.
“It exists and exists and exists and takes on whatever form is necessary for it to continue existing.”
