The the reality of love is more felt than understood. Less aware than we should be, we often miss it entirely, considering it a moment of misery and sorrow, of turmoil and pain. We think it is not what it is and is what it is not. We do not realize we encounter it it when we do. We believe it when we sense it’s sensuous breeze, soft in moonlight, dripping with honey; sweet to taste and pleasant to feel. We believe it’s half truth, but we rarely believe it’s existence in the darkness of life, the cold imprisoning walls so often associated with the wholeness of the thing. And there it is, you realize. That is the thing. It is not just the emotions, but something greater, something beyond. Is the processing, of all emotions, of all situations and concluding and conducting our reactions to its twin. Flipping the heart when we do not believe it can be, when the world tells us we must hate, we must revenge, we must eliminate; when instead we must forgive, we must have mercy, and we must suffer. Love is the thing that colors in the rest of the picture, that fixes our eyes to see what is really in front of us. A tortured man, an unloved woman, a forgotten child. To understand that good is often manipulated, and to hate those who have been manipulated is to be so manipulated yourself. Love is not just an emotion, it is not just a thought, not just a word. It is too great a thing to encompass by way of an isolated category. It is above and beyond. It is kinetic. It is the closest sense of being to perfection.