What's love?

"The world is in a daze for that word.
That wretched word uttered everywhere we go.
What does it bear? What does it carry? What does it mean?

In this confusing cacophony of disastrous consequences--a chaotic,
dismantling stampede of fate trampling us on our backs,
we try to reach out in our hours of need, with our yearns,
our aches, our desire-laced tremblings,
fumbling along the universe in a numb, hollow vessel.
We try to call this love.

Our empathy as creatures towards others is strange yet natural.
Altruism is not only seen in humans.
So if it is not the primordial calling drumming within our nerves,
what is it, then?

We mix whatever it is that we need and desire with the idea of love.
We try to repatriate our emotions back into our hearts,
but we see that they make little sense.
Feelings are not supposed to make sense.
If they made sense they'd be thoughts.

Oh yes,
feelings come and go.
Often we feel vapid and dry, like a void had replaced our hearts,
when it is never so.
The truth is, we are often blinded.
Our hearts are clouded.
Whatever you may think of.
It can never go.
For it to go would make oneself inhuman.

Loving oneself is important.
How can one love anyone else when one does not love oneself?
Do I love myself?
Certainly.
Do I feel, think,
that I need other people to make me feel loved?
Of course.
Some do, some don't.
But we are social creatures,
are we not?
Are we not made to love, and be loved,
or whatever that blasted, overrated,
putridly disgusting word means?

We often get lost.
We often go on bouts of despair.
We often slip away from reality
and instead live in a wretched fantasy
about what we consider as love.
We compensate.
We substitute.
We compromise.
We sacrifice.
So many people trying to define what love is
that at the end of the day it's nothing
but an overused word thrown around
in the vicinity of popular culture or a chemical reaction within us.

Love is never what you think or feel it is.
Love is something that is earned through time.
It is not a final declaration,
the be-all-end-all,
the thing that triumphs over all in one sentence.
It is a process.
It is imperfect.
It only ends when one of the parties end it,
dies off.
Love often cannot live yet never dies
 Love is in words. In actions. In memories."

From @aditgrimmm