What is love? We all at one time or another have thought we knew. But perhaps it is so simple a thing that we will none of us ever understand it. You may trace the outline of its paradoxes, like when we are most in love, the least we are able to express what it truly is, then realize that to think of it in such a manner — that of some intellectual conundrum — is to miss the point entirely. Perhaps to best know love is to know the fruits of love, as merely to say that love can move mountains is nothing compared to seeing that mountain actually moved…. But then, when we do this, it is then only to know love’s most outward appearance. Can we hope for better? Or can we say, at most, “Love is love,” and to shrug our shoulders — that we must all mean something close enough to each other’s ideas of it when we speak of it — is this all we can do? Or is it to say, “Love is love,” and have that to mean that anything we do with our heart in the right place — that is love? Or is it, finally, “Love is love,” why are you asking of what you already know, in a question that can never be answered — for what is love? The answer may be that the time would be better spent in moving those mountains.
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