People often wonder what love might be.
Some see love; through movies, advertisements and other people.
Some hear love; through stories, conversations and music.
Some imagine love; through the eyes of their mind, with the help of novels and poetries.
Some feel love; through experience.
But yet, afterall what is love?
Perhaps one can never really understand what love is until and unless they have lost it.
Just like one can never understand what it really means to be happy until and unless they have been really sad.
To really appreciate things in life, you must understand how it feels to exist without them. Perhaps.
"The path to paradise begins in hell"
_ Danté
You and I cannot define love; even great writers and philosophers have failed in that pursuit.
But, what harm shall it bring to contemplate?
Well, is love an emotion?
You might get affected emotionally by the death of your pet while completely being obscure of the fact that a small piece of about 200 words were devoted to a story of a farmer who killed himself that same day in the daily newspaper.
Our emotions have a context.
But, does love have a context?
Considering the traditional perception of "love".
You often fall in love for things which are important; how they look, how they sound, how they appear to be.
Once we are in love we consider if indeed they are honest, kind, gentle, thoughtful and every other moral aesthetics which were implanted in our mind through generations of religious and cultural believes.
Then eventually when one of the lovers decide that the other one is perhaps inadequate; they leave since without context our emotions often lose its purpose.
Love ends, or does it begin?
The aftermath to this vague story of love ends in with the simplest of details in its soul;
Like; whenever you see the menu of a place you used to visit together all, and you still know what she would like to order.
Or the little things like the way she used to uniformly stack objects up and be pleased about it.
Or when you listen to a song which you listened to for the first time with her.
Or perhaps you see a movie playing in the lobby of a hotel and it reminds you of the time when you watched that same movie with her.
Or the place in your house where she use to often couch at, the dish she used to eat at, your towel that she often shared, your clothes those she used to wear, the songs she used to hum.
The soothing smile that she had will linger in your mind forever; perhaps you will close your eyes and remember it each time you are in pain, disease or suffering.
The materials you bought together, the places you went together.
Everything shall haunt your conscience.
So, is this love?
Devoid of context and emotion.
Just a lingering melancholia that shall never fade away.
Well, we shall never know.