What is love?

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What is love?

Love… Vast subject that’s… On what side of this powerful feeling could I start to try to tell you about it as best as possible? The one who carries, the one who destroys? The one that gives you the lightness of a feather, or the one that weighs.? The one who displays a radiant and almost smiling smile on your face, or the one who makes your tears flow along it?

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Love is the strongest, most uncontrollable, most beautiful, and most terrible trouble it is given to feel. Wonderful, exciting, thrilling, it is a source of happiness. It is also sneaky, suffering, whimsical, devastating. Is life without him only worth living?

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Love… what is Love

The human being feeds on the love he carries, as much as on the one he receives. Why then is it likely to be so scary? And so bad…. To love…. My god… To lo-ve. You lo-ve your mother, you lo-ve your brother, your grandparents. You lo-ve your friends, you love your dog. Yet we loved so much already before him, before her. But the day when we love a man, a woman. On that day, what is the process in our heart, in our body, leading us to experience this love so ardently, to the point of no longer being able to continue to exist without it? 

How can we only, while continuing to lo-ve all these loved ones who surround us, experience at the same time this strange and guilty sensation, that they are no longer enough for us… Yes, I love you, but without him, without her I am nothing… However, I am a human being in my own right. I am me… With my ideas, my past, my values, my well-affirmed personality. Why did I forget myself so much…? It took up so much space that it came to encroach on my own person.

What is love?

Love is tirelessly seeking to cross the gaze of this special being while fleeing him. It’s being in front of him, and lacking confidence. It is to lose one’s means, to stumble on words, to squirm one’s fingers in every way by wanting to express to him the extent of our love for him. It’s letting yourself be carried away by the depth of your eyes, diving into it, then lowering ours.

It is to see nothing more around than his only grace that subjugates us. It is to feel at the only agreement of his name evoked, at the only sound of his voice that sounds, the beats of his heart that accelerate. It is both sweating and shivering, feeling his sweaty and trembling hands, when even from afar you can see him. It is to cross the country for a few days, a few hours, a few minutes stolen in his presence. 

It’s feeling his whole body shudder when a little too close, he’s approaching us. It is filling ourselves with hope with every word, every gesture that can make us think that he has for us, even a tiny amount of feelings. It is when even adorned with a ridiculous accoutrement, we continue to find it the most beautiful on earth.

Love is feeling able to give in the moment, one’s life for that of the loved one. It’s wanting to take every opportunity to see a smile illuminate your face. It’s going into a shop, and looking at what could please him, before even thinking about pleasing himself.

Love is constantly worrying about how the other is doing. It is to suffer from not being able to feel the pain in his place when he is burning with fever, when a danger hangs over his person, or when an unbearable punishment seizes him.

Love is often about putting the being we lo-ve before ourselves. And yet, love is to fear constantly for one’s own future, if by the greatest misfortune, the chosen one of our heart were to escape us. Love is to be mad with jealousy to the mere possibility that the man or woman of our life finds any attraction to another person.

Love is an inordinate fear of abandonment. It is to feel able to die of grief, if the object of our torments does not share or no longer shares our feelings. Love is every night closing your eyes with the image of our wonder. And it’s reopening them every morning thinking about her.

Sometimes it’s not sleeping at all. Love is not to bear the “one of lost, ten of found… “, “One nail chases the other… »… The “Everything passes with time”, and the “You deserve better…” ». These inescapable sentences, carried by an entourage with certain benevolence, and yet just as banal as useless.

Love is feeling that never again can we love someone so much. It’s feeling cut off from a part of yourself when he or she’s not there. Love is to have in the hollow of one’s arms, in contact with one’s skin, the intimate and unshakeable conviction that with this one person, nothing can reach us. It is to be impregnated with its smell, these physical details, these little manias that belong only to it, and that we know irreplaceable.