I have a friend who's favorite color is green.
They say its because green is the color of trees, and grass.
The holy matrimony; where science and math collide.
Where plants turn light and life into energy.
People say red is the color of love...
But I reckon that it could also be green.
It is evergreen, like the needles of a pine
It perseveres through the winter;
And when it finally burns to ash, it returns to the soil
Making way for whatever comes next.
If red is passion and fire,
Green is stability, it is calm. It takes time.
But it does not waste time.
Green is the little things;
The smiles, the jokes, the music.
The late nights spent half asleep, the food shared;
The video games played, the movies watched;
The stories told and the stories made;
The smells and the lights.
Love, like green, is a holy union.
A universal anomaly, a collision.
A place where subjective and objective reality meet.
But, unlike green, or red, or any other color,
Love cannot be quantified or directly observed.
It cannot be measured with instruments.
It cannot be plotted on a graph.
It cannot be taxonomically described.
It has no time, no place, no mass.
It takes up no space, yet space moves in its wake.
It can only be told or shown
Through the side effects it brings upon living things.
Is that not- by definition- an anomaly of science?
It seems to exist in defiance of all physical law.
Like a virus, it is neither living nor dead.
It can make more of itself, and spread its influence,
Yet love itself never says anything.
At least at first glance.
Its raw language cannot be translated directly.
You cannot read its code, or speak its language.
But, you can experience it.
Living is the translation layer between love and soul.
Hmm...
My friend finds love hard.
Not in the sense that it will not be reciprocated;
But in the sense that it seems to consume everything.
Every word, song, line of code, piece of dialogue,
Drawing scrawled, poem written, brick laid...
All consumed by love.
Love for whom, or what?
I'm really not at liberty to say.
I'm not sure they'd want me to share that, or to speak it aloud.
Even though deep down I know they'd want me to.
What will they do then, when the love is stripped away?
If said love is not reciprocated, it is not the end of all things.
Love is not a fickle thing, and it is to be found everywhere. A new journey simply begins.
But what will become of the creations made from that love? Made from that specific and special strain of it, forged only through that circumstance?
The code, the music, the writings, the stories in their head? What will become of them?
...
...
Perhaps, it is best not to dwell on the negatives.
After all, all things are hard before they are easy.
Perhaps this will not be the end of me.
It is my mission regardless.
The letter will be delivered.
I've changed form before, I think.
Only time will tell now.
This boat can only take me so far.
These boots were made for walking!
Tally-ho!