Our culture is saturated in love, like a handkerchief soaked in blood.
It bleeds into every aspect of our lives, be it the movies and music we listen to, or the conversations we have with friends.
If there were ever to be a global flag, it would have two dark featureless faces bent towards each other, lips almost touching.
People pine for love, they create imaginary beings in their head for love, they debase themselves for love, and when they do actually experience the real thing, or what they believe to be the real thing, they are disappointed, as it so often falls woefully short of the scintillating fairytale encapsulated in their hearts since they were old enough to understand, like an insect frozen in amber.
That’s when you realise we are a world in love with love, and most of all a world in love ourselves, a grand, collective stroking of egos, and that kisses and sex and roses are all nice and good, but what truly matters in regards to the blood of our lives is not how we spend it, but how we collect it, whether it be in the form of art, or literature, work, aid, kindness.
These are the kinds of love that remain to touch the hearts of others long after the flesh has decayed from their creator’s bones, and the rot crept into their hearts.
And it is true love.