The fuss about love
It’s that time again. When the world makes a big deal about love. Not that we don’t do it all the time in any case.
In many ways the philosophy of life revolves around love – for ourselves, for others and for cake. We wallow in it, as it continuously consumes us on a subliminal level everyday. But valentine’s day, because of whatever dry and insipid reasons, like marketing and western cultural influence, makes it okay to be vocal about what we usually hide.
It is totally acceptable, and perhaps even expected, to be brazen about how we feel. So we wear red in cultural solidarity with one another, send flowers or heart emojis, book a table at a restaurant, call our parents, have sex; or wear pajamas, scroll mindlessly through Netflix, make coffee, text friends, eat chocolate and shower kisses on our pet dog. Celebrate or not, date or not, we are not allowed to forget it is Valentine’s Day.
For the past two three years, I’ve written on love around this time. No particular reason, except there are constant reminders everywhere making it top of the mind recall. There is no way to avoid the mushy forwards, the funny memes, advertisements pushing us to buy things to express how we feel, and the countless heart shaped balloons floating at traffic signals, that pop when pricked. But not this year. I have not had the urge to write on anything for the past few months, and today was no different, that is until my phone beeped.
And now, as I sit and stare at the screen looking at the words – The Fuss About Love – I question my motivation. What is the point of joining in the euphoric chorus, trying to say something on love, knowing that everything has been said before. Am I am trying to write because it’s the 14th of February, a reason as superficial as a date on the calendar. After all there are larger issues in life, bigger battles, and priorities.
So much happened in the past few months. Elections were fought and lost, omicron floated in quietly, countries have been teetering at the edge of war, startups are doing more than just business, clothes have become political, so many died, and Afghanistan continues to struggle, mostly alone. I feel strongly about all of this, yet I did nothing for so long. But here I am, only now, typing.
It is embarrassing to admit I was prompted by a poem on Instagram. Makes me think about my choices and question who I am. What do I care about, is this what really moves me, is this being shallow. But then I also tell myself to believe, and continue to type.
Love, even if it is packaged, presented, and depicted by cheery red hearts and dour faced teddy bears, is the only thing in the world that is truly real. Wars will continue to be fought, lives will be lost, the world will be both unfair and unkind, and yet there is hope, in love.
Today can be an opportunity to remind our self, that it is love that can heal and redeem us. No matter how shoddily we represent it, it exists.