Love

Love seems to find itself in riddles and finds comfort in the play of words. When I ask myself when the loving started, I cannot pin it to a single reason. Why do I love her seems almost as absurd as asking why there is a color red. As I trace the cords back through time trying to find a specific moment or reason, I come to the fateful conclusion that it came from nothing. Or rather that it was always there, the serene feeling of love was always there and it just needed a person that fit the hole, releasing the being that is love.

It seems that love doesn't in fact make everything worse, as it is pervasive in all parts of me. Circumstances, fate, the world really is what hurts me. Love has always been inside waiting for the inspiration it needed, waiting for the sign that it is time to come out. As it is though, love comes out so rarely that it really doesn't know anything about timing but rather, it comes and goes as it pleases, whether or not it is displeasing to the world.

Why should we deny the love that is so ready to come to the door and greet you with its genial wave and smile that showers warmth. Love is like a child, full of possibilities, but on occasion it breaks a lamp. But it didn't break it on purpose, merely out of curiosity for what it might be to turn it on.

I wrap myself up in words that seem to strangle me, because perfectly describing a feeling is about as easy as describing what an electron looks like. You will never see it and if you do, you have no idea where it will be the next moment. I tend to think that makes us pathetically limited, but in reality, the curiosity and fun of guessing where it's going is what makes life worth living.

-Erik Rahtjen