documentation of my neuroses, eccentricities, imperfections, lame puns & other rad bullshit



Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Or it could be the excessive black coffee in my veins. Or maybe it was that philosophy class I attended one time before switching out. I have no idea why I am typing this blog post. I do know that it was on a Sunday morning, my wedges clicked on the ice as I struggled to speed walk back to campus. I felt like an elderly lady as I complained about my immense bunion pain and apologized for continually whacking my bulky purse at Tori. Like I said, maybe the cold weather was starting to cloud my thoughts. Maybe I had been narcotized by the almond milk I had with breakfast. Or was it me just being weird- again?

Tori and I, just like any eighteen year old’s who are convinced they’ve seen and felt it all, had a deep conversation about love.. I mean what even is it?

an intense feeling of deep affection.
“babies fill parents with intense feelings of love”
synonyms: deep affection, fondness, tenderness, warmth, intimacy, attachment, endearment;
a person or thing that one loves.
“she was the love of his life”
synonyms: beloved, loved one, love of one’s life, dear, dearest, dear one, darling, sweetheart, sweet, angel, honey;
feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment to (someone).
“do you love me?”
synonyms: care very much for, feel deep affection for, hold very dear, adore, think the world of, be devoted to, dote on, idolize, worship;

I am calling bullshit.

There are numerous aspects of life that I choose not to accept and this is definitely one of them. I truly believe in my heart that love is a word that can’t be defined. Love isn’t anything. It is everything.

Some people say that the word “love” is overused. That it lacks meaning when said so often. But how can it lack meaning when it is the one speaking of it that gives it meaning? Like I stated previously, love isn’t one specific thing. It’s definition is different to everyone. And the love one has for each person, place, thing, and action in their life are unique. Love is an individual. The love I feel for one person is something only I will know and I can never feel that same love for anyone else.

Love is more than romance and passion. Love is more than the person you want to go down on one knee for. Love is that person you want to lay on the floor with in fuzzy socks, laughing at the infinite possibilities both your futures hold. Love is that peanut butter and banana toast you quietly enjoyed last night for dessert. Love is that bridge you drive under everyday; the one with the breathtaking view you vow never to take a picture of. Love is the way your eyes light up when a stranger lets you pet their dog. Love is that friend you just wish had the slightest clue about how many heads they turn when they sashay around a room. Love is everything. It’s something we all feel, but leaves us unsatisfied as we try to describe it to our friends.

Sometimes love lifts people higher than the sun, providing them with a smile that even the worst news can’t break. And sometimes love knocks the wind out of people, leaving a pain in their gut that even the strongest of medications can’t ease. And sometimes love is right in between. It leaves people confused why they can feel electricity racing under their skin like the computer pinball game we all remember playing as a child. Love can be beautiful and ugly at the same time.

And love isn’t something we acquire with age; love is the umbilical cord that gives a baby the oxygen and nutrients it needs to survive. Love is the universe: the planets, the galaxies, the black holes, the darkest parts of space that we don’t know exist. Love is mitosis. Love regenerates and grows.

Tori told me the love she felt for a person was identical to the awe she experiences when her eyes discover that one piece of art in a museum. And I believe that love feels like the moment you suddenly uncover the deeper meaning of that one piece of art your eyes discover in a museum. She told me that “you fall in love with your perspective of a person– your understanding of who they are might be completely different than someone else’s. Their little details that no one else will ever see captivate you.” It is the wrinkles you try to rid with cream. The wrinkles from that big smile you wore more often than your favorite pair of shoes. The wrinkles you cringe at in the mirror that everyone else finds so beautiful about you. That is love.

Since love can’t be defined, I could describe it forever. As frustrating as it is not to know the meaning of a single word composed of only four letters, it’s okay. That’s the beauty of it. Love is mysterious. Love can’t be prepared for since we never know what to expect. Maybe that’s why people claim that there is an absence of love in our world. Maybe they just don’t know where to find it. That love is in every fracture and crevice. Love isn’t meant to be understood or mastered;

Love is.

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