Love

A true lover of words, William Shakespeare has, for many years now, utterly impressed me with his poetry. Sensible thoughts penned down so fluidly that his words can run down my tongue like a free flowing stream. The brief moments that his lyrical prose touches my lips, there is an evanescent peace and conviction in my mind.

Love has always been a curious topic - a favorite for many. I doubt there can ever be anything done without a purpose driven by love. Even in one's most forlorn instances, there is a grip that fastens us to the things we hold dear, to fight and defend despite the loss of all possible victory.

A few days earlier, I have debated with myself with regards to this capricious feeling. Apparently love does not always manifest as that soft tingling murmur at the bottom of your stomach, or as that whirlwind dizzy phase of obsession. It may begin as so, but eventually it evolves to exist even without response, without expectations - at times, I daresay, it evolves into a sense of duty and responsibility that it intermingles with our daily lives almost unnoticed out of habit. It no longer dictates, but compromises and understands.

There is much more swimming in my mind that I do not find words to write here. Perhaps I shall divulge more in some other circumstance. But, let me conclude this post with a sonnet from Shakespeare that I've just encountered. Perhaps it may aid in my search for meaning.


SONNET 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.