Love. My mind balks at the word. No, that isn’t quite right. It fears the word. In the face of love, the mind is left impotent. The mind cowers behind the bushes of reason, trembling at love.
A mind understands love in the same way a child understands an oven: it understands what it does on the most simple of levels, sees what proceeds from it, and has the innate tinge of fear for it has seen what may result of it. The mind cannot comprehend love though. It really is quite nonsensical when you think about it, or perhaps I should say try to think about it.
For a chiefly rational being, as judged and necessitated by the great philosophers, mankind in love is supremely irrational. Love is often reckless. It is unpredictable. It is painful. And it must be. Love that is none of those things is not love. Safe love builds prison bars around the heart with not so much as a window to let passion in. Love that is not painful has no depth of passion for pain is born out of a depth of care for another. And predictable love has murdered passion altogether.
Yet, what love does not cause the heart to act a fool? What love can be predicted with surety? What love does not cause the heart to ache for its beloved? No, these things don’t add up. Not in the mind. The mind craves what perpetuates the body: safety, predictability, and comfort.
But love is of the spirit. It, for the sake of itself, sacrifices all the needs of the body, all the needs of the mind. Our hearts override the basic, physical human necessities for the most important of human necessities.
How fantastically insane is man that we cannot truly put into words what love is and yet we would abandon everything for its sake? This is, however, what makes us human. Love is chief amongst those irrational, absurd virtues that are what makes us human. And so therein lies the beauty for it eschews all sense, logic, and rationale.
The heights of intelligence, of the mind, are deceitful. Their foothold and summit crumble quickly under the weight of loneliness and hubris. The heights of love are true and faithful. There is no summit to rest upon, but eternal elevations to scale; only perpetual challenges await, strengthening the climber and humbling the haughty. A great mind cannot bear itself. A great heart can bear much. A great mind is insufferable without a greater heart. Only that strength found in the heights of love can bear the weight found in the heights of intelligence. And so it is that the irrational alone can bear the rational.
And so in vain we can only offer out small attempts at defining love as filtered by our thoughts. These attempts are often beautiful, however, and capture at least a facet of the many-sided jewel: love sanctifies those who love. Love is a dreaming of the heart. Love is a conquering of the mind by the heart. Only in love does one and one equal more than two. Love finds existence in want; existence finds need in love. Love is the murder of Time for the sake of another.