I like to think of love as a mystical practice of the occult. Something that cannot and will not be contained or known; it is a splash of fire ignited unexpectedly in the life of its chosen victims.
Throughout history love has been wanted, captured, persecuted, obsessed, deceived, won, and limitless. At such a young age when we are most affected by our surroundings, we absorbed fairy tales. They are filled with picturesque princesses and valiant princes, and their narrated relationship accumulates to the quintessence of love. Young girls are most affected by this; we search for a prince to slay our dragons. We find none. Later stories, books, and novels come into our hands and the fine line of fiction and non-fiction become distorted by our own misconceptions or wanting of a created character. After all aren’t books supposed to entertain the unimaginable reality?
My point I’m trying to conclude from my ramblings is no single person, movie, book, parent nor peer can teach us the meaning or true actions of love. It is something that must be felt and learned through two lovers, and two lovers only. No paramour can be created only found and loved for everything he or she possess. More than likely, their flaws are what have cut their lover to love’s core foundations. It is always easy to love somebody, but the true challenge is acceptance. One can only love another, when he or she has seen the flaws and still decides to continue on with that person.
I turn to the greats to help me illustrate the intimacy and delicate affection between two lovers in a single kiss.