There is something intriguing and yet compelling about love, it is like a fire, which consumes whatever it gets into contact with, either purifying it or destroying it to smithereens. There is a certain type of love which is a malaise, and those who engage in this kind of hypocritical love and its concomitant acts are lunatics. This is the love which calls for the suspension of critical thought in its operation, in which the three little words are supposed to mean the world to someone. Love is uttered like in an irrational trance, I will love you forever is said with an amazing ease. I am a skeptic of this kind of love, my emotional instincts being refined by my instincts, experiences and environment. This is not to be construed to mean that I do not love love, but my conception and meaning of love is different. I celebrate love, not lust clothed as love, love borne of the heart not of the gland. I believe in the love which is rational and pragmatic, love which binds bleeding wounds, not love which encompasses the emotional sphere alone.
And now the lunatics celebrate the pagan superficial love with red roses, gilded cards and choice chocolate in their air castles, a love which has been occasioned by the tempest of fate, not design. They hell raise without any scruples, loving in a non existent love. They are engaged in a wild party, where no one is excluded from the party. I refuse to join them. They are not celebrating because time and occasion genuinely call for celebration, but because they believe custom obliges them to celebrate. I choose to love the love which surpasses them all: devoid of pretences, a love in which tears are shed because of pain, and there is no joy in sorrow, a love so supreme, a love of those in need of love, the love which wins hearts and minds a love which consists of honour and veneration a love which prevails over the storms of life to endure.