Love is immortal; Forever gliding its way through the ticking seconds, growing with each break.
It is an undying thing.
Maybe it's the yearning for the warmth of love that has sown in me this belief. My heart skips a beat and my breath hitches when a couple passes me by that has been bent by age. A knowing rise in me, time may have bent those two but they had bent together. And what more there is to ask but a companion who stands beside you when the potent wave of age slowly but surely engulfs you.
It is the wildest force no dam can stop from flowing; no missile can break. The soil may shift beneath my feet but the love in me will never quake. Its foundation only grows stronger with time. Its roots furl around each rock that promises to cut and bloom into a vivacious array of sturdier strands. This feeling is something innate; An ever-present and everlasting faith. Do you disagree? Then answer this, what do you feel when an infant grasps your thumb, putting its trust in you, a mere stranger? And what do you feel when the weather rises just as you like it after the storm passes? Is it not love in its many faces? When the seed you've sown at last blooms into a flower and beams at you with its fervent shine under the sun; When that infant turns a bride or groom or when the nightingale sings once more even after the storm swept everything away. Is it not then you recognize: you love without learning how to?
In every foundation lies a fragment of love. Everything is crafted with a devotion to what you consider perfect. A potter's wheel keeps on turning until the clay turns into a model of his ideality; something he will always hold dear. Bricks turn into walls; walls turn into buildings and buildings to cities because someone loved an idea. The constructs of humanity are nothing but blocks of matter if not built with passion and care. Better is a meal of herbs made with tender hands than an ox slain with contempt. Better is a world running on passion than one ruled by survival and fear.
But is humanity too far gone to refuse to be ruled by fear? Instead of giving only when we get, can we give out selflessly to those in need? Can hoarders realize their sin? Can the needy take without dread? This may be a fantasy, a utopian dream but dreams have turned into reality before. Flying was the ability only a bird possessed; the idea of man, airborne was a grand jest before he soared to the moon and stuck a flag in her celestial soil. The invention of the light bulb was a fool's errand before it lit the dark chambers of a curious child so she can turn another leaf of a lengthy novel. A motor car was a superfluous oddity before it became a necessity. You are a fool to dream until it turns you a genius. A dream is a redundant anomaly until it becomes a cardinal entity.
So why hinder a blissful existence by prejudice? By doubt?
What purpose is there to a crown if you shrink from change?
My skin may be burnt by the sun and yours blanched by the cold but we bleed the same red.
You may carve your road to left and I, right but we meet the same fate through death.
So, is there any purpose to hate based on differences?
With telluric limitations comes a sense of helplessness, a feeling of isolation. Borders coerce the subconscious to separate us from the crowd and we unknowingly build labels as to what is normal for us and what is alien. This dissociation from society grows into hatred when the other party acts in a way that has been proclaimed immoral for you. But who considers what is moral and what is not? We certainly do not possess the certitude of the presence of a God or an omnipotent and omniscient being that dwells in the clouds. It is only up to us to build a law; and in a world that is always at the brink of war, filled with loathe, it is evident that we are building it wrong.
Mortal life is not omnipotent or omniscient but it is omnipresent and if a person still feels alone in this world, despite that fact, then we have failed as a civilization. No deity can save a nation dying not of drought or starvation but of inane enmity.
Instead of recoiling from the differences, we can learn to embrace the unique. We need to let go of this robotic craving for an unbreaking uniformity. Chaos is beautifully woven in each droplet of our being and it is nothing short of marvelous to watch its creations of different shapes and sizes, of different colors and speeches spread with a wild and loving tenacity and engulf each pebble of existence. Chaos can birth a billion things but not perfection as we hypothesize it.
Perfection for us is absolute comfort and unadulterated euphoria; it is earning inexhaustible and unquestionable power without expending an ounce of labor. To us, perfection is total stillness. But there is no good without the bad; there is no joy without sorrow; no relief without pain; no life without experience. Pain is our best teacher. When a child falls down, he bleeds. He reserves the sting of grazed skin for the next time he will tread uneven soil. All evils fuse with virtue to retain an equilibrium that creates the coincidence of life. Creation is not in our hands and neither is death, it solely depends on nature, But our nature depends on us. A nature reigned by abhorrence and gluttony gives and takes with disdain and what benefit is to a fruit that is not deserved except to give us guilt which slowly festers a soul?
Have our selfish wants made us so incapable of bettering our land for us and our progeny?
It isn't long before we run out of time; before our world finally exhausts. Death comes for everything. Is it not better to die holding hands when the time comes than dying clutching swords and spears before the clock will reach its end?
When will mankind come to realize that love is divine?
