love

The thing about love is that it exists, but it doesn’t too.

It exists when you have it.

You understand why there are paintings of the most passionate kiss.

You understand the letters Beethoven wrote to his Immortal Beloved.

You understand the melancholy behind the lyrics of your favorite song.

You understand pain.

You understand hope.

You understand faith.

You understand fear.

You understand pain, again.

You understand why people love.

You understand why people love despite feeling the pain.

You understand why the story ends happily ever after when the prince kisses the princess.

 

But when you don’t,

when you don’t have love,

you see the blue in the paintings isn’t always happy.

You see that Beethoven truly was alone.

You see that the song along with its melancholy does end.

You see pain.

You see hope.

You see faith.

You see fear.

You see pain, again.

You see that people don’t know how to love.

You see that pain has nothing to do with love, it exists even without it.

You see that the story ends when the author forces people to believe endings are happy.

 

But when you’ve been loved and lost it,

when you’ve tasted love and forgotten it,

when you’ve felt love and felt unloved,

you know that paintings of those kisses and the blue in them contrast each other.

You know that Beethoven wanted to be alone with his Immortal Beloved.

You know that your favorite song is your favorite because of the melancholy.

You know pain.

You know hope.

You know faith.

You know fear.

You know pain, again.

You know that people are still figuring love out.

You know that people don’t love despite the pain, they love because there’s pain.

You know that some stories have to end for a new one to start.

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