LOVE.

 Determining if you're in love with someone or you're just in love with the "idea" of them is very intricate. When the silence is quite loud at night and your room is lightly dark due to your night lights, do you think about how you feel around them or do you just think about them, and only them? Dear reader of mine, sometimes love is not just about them. It's a lot more about you. Love is not something that you can hold in a box. It holds you instead. Sometimes I feel so strongly about love that I'm not able to write about this feeling which is cleverer than me. My love-hate relationship with love, something that cannot even be touched has led me to a conclusion that it is like black coffee without milk. It has utter passion and makes you want to quit it but you can't. Leaves you with a thrill and doesn't let you sleep at night. Makes you want to crave it, no matter how much you resist. You find yourself waltzing because of it but in the smallest corner of your mind; neither the brain nor the heart, just mind, you find the urge to let go of it. You think of switching to just a glass of water instead. 

(My) Love is like a rainbow. No, sometimes you don't see all the seven colors of the spectrum. Sometimes it's just the highest chromaticity of violet, brightest shade of yellow, or the darkest hue of red. But what if I tell you that love can be lavender? Or teal? Or mauve? What if love is the concoction of every color you see? What if we were never wrong but just had a limited approach to the idea of love? If you love them, love them in the darkest hex of indigo or the deepest saturation of red. If you love them in all the colors you see, love each color of them, in full brightness. 

There is no utopian definition of love. No set of words has ever been strung correctly to tell you what love is. Love is a feeling? A thing? A vision? A tag? No. There's no one approach to the idea of love. But for now, love is when you have room for mistakes. When your pop-rock personality starts acknowledging indie music for them. It is closeness without sacrificing space and freedom. It is trust without thinking that they want to leave. It is both, a choice and a feeling you cannot describe well enough but all you can do is to choose it over and over again. It is like the musicians who played beautiful pieces when the titanic sank; it's carefree, selfless, and wild. It lies in shared playlists, t-shirts, books, clandestine meetings, and longing stares. You don't love while expecting it in return. You love with all your heart, knowing that you're giving a piece of your heart a better home. In all the wilderness, love gives warmth. In all the warmth, it adds a pinch of wilderness. It makes you leave the warmest bed you've ever known, only to bring you to another warm and safe space. Love is never just about "YOU", dear reader of mine. It is about building each other up, lifting each other from the shackles of anguish. Love is not a feeling. To some extent, it is a place. A place for refuge, pain, growth, warmth, and a sense of belongingness. The only definition of love is the one that you write.