Remember when I was ill? Well, I started writing up some random poems. Not entirely sure what was going through my head at the time, but I wanted to welcome you to my world, so I’ve decided to put some up. That’s when I get a chance to. They’re not edited, need to keep it authentic right? I’m no longer ill, my poems seem to continue. So I was writing a chapter for my current book and this just hit me, and the next thing I knew I was typing the below. How do you write about Love if you’ve never experienced it?
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Am I in love? Or am I in love with love?
Is such a question necessary, when someone is in love? When it is me, I, myself, that is in love? The writer? Or would one call me a poet?
Unless, poetry demands me to fall in love, just so that I can write about love?
But, wait, dear sir, dear madam, what is love?
A feeling? A tingly sensation? Happiness, followed by lack of sleep?
Waiting for him to arrive? To hear his voice, for his call? For his sweet touch, his finger to slide across your bare shoulders? For his eyes, that gaze, which holds such intensity? His smiles? Smiles reserved for only your eyes?
Or is it all a weakness?
One word, and every limb in your body is alert. One touch, and your body shivers with excitement. Or, is it from fear? One look, and you feel your knees buckle. You’re just slightly dizzy, your excuse to others. Slightly flustered, you mumble whilst fanning yourself with your hand. But the smile. One smile, and your heart pounds against your ribs. Surely your ribs will explode? You can’t stop questioning. Can you? Is this just an excuse?
Truly, what is love?
Who truly has control of your emotions? Is it not him? A word from him can make you smile. Yet, a word from him, can make you shed a tear. A word from him can make you hold your stomach with laughter. Yet, a word from him, can make you rage with anger. But, it is you who control your emotions, right?
He knows how you feel. He knows how you feel about him. But do you, yourself, know how you feel? How you feel about him? He asks you to commit a task. For him only, he states clearly. Your love permits it, he adds. Such smooth silky voice. You are against it. Truth be told, morals dictate that you must not carry out such a task. But it is love. Is love not worth it? Should one not do something, anything, everything for love? It has clouded your judgement. Although, is that not what love is?
But, then, you open your eyes. Are you in love? Were you in love? And, who was he that convinced you of love? A stranger you perhaps bumped into? A brief acquaintance from the past, an acquaintance who decided to taunt you in your dreams after years of complete silence.
No. You’ve never experienced it, so how can you know what love is? If you do not know what love is, how do you know if it is love?
So, am I in love, if I have no idea what love is? Or, am I another hopeless case, who has fallen in love with love itself. Do I want to fall in love and have him swipe me off my feet? Or do I want to fight it, so that only I, myself, can hold onto and control my emotions?
I’ve heard that one’s emotion is a powerful tool. So who should stay in power? Me or him? Or me and him?
I ask again, is it love, for I do not know what love is?
© Fatima Begum