This blog is about love. I mean that in the strictest sense of the word, but maybe not anymore. I started this blog in pursuit of learning more about love, about its nature and its essence.
I always come back to the same thing. The more I read about love, the less there is for me to say anything else on the topic, even though I’m more certain than ever I know what love is because it keeps manifesting itself for me in the same ways over again.
A blog is one of them. It’s the writing part I love, which I can’t do without an insane amount of reading. I still haven’t decided whether reading or writing is my true first love. What I have decided is that a blog is the best medium for my thoughts.
I never thought about what purpose my blog would serve. It was never a means to an end. Then I realized that’s what I meant when I chose love as the singular focus of everything I write. Love as a philosophy, love as a way of life, and love as something I find worth investing my time in.
I haven’t come close to exhausting love as a topic, yet I’m feeling stifled by the invisible constraints I’ve imposed on myself with this blog. I promised to only write on the subject of love, or poetry about love, when it’s far easier to show my work by pointing to the things I love.
This isn’t the first blog I’ve started. It is the most different. Poetry is not something I ever intended to write, and all the leftover white space makes me sad, no matter how much I like, love, or hate what I’ve written. I’m used to taking up a whole page and letting my thoughts take shape, preferably in a coherent manner.
No matter how many times I remind or reassure myself that writing is first and foremost for myself, there’s still an external pressure telling me to write differently, talk about something else, be someone else, and I usually end up getting myself stuck. I think a lot of writers end up in a familiar place.
One of the reason I chose a specific subject for my blog is because I didn’t want to fall into the trap of writing what anyone else likes more than I like something myself. I really love writing about love. I really miss writing about the things I love, the things that remind me that love is real, that it exists, and that love is a daily presence in my life because of what I do and how I choose to do it. Love is the motivating force for me behind ever word I write.
I don’t endorse purposelessness. I don’t want to wander through life aimlessly and I don’t want to scream words into empty air. There’s no escaping or denying the fact that humans respond to emotion in writing. I’ve done everything in my power to write about love detached from feeling and I can congratulate myself for being successful, or I can consider how pointless it is to write about love without the passion it requires. Words can make writers transparent or they can be constructed to obscure the truth. Writers keep a lot of tricks up their sleeves.
Love is confession and confession means telling the truth, and the truth is that love shouldn’t be separated from feelings because it’s feelings that make us human, that show our humanity from a place of total vulnerability. If there’s any purpose to this blog, it’s to show love by the work I do. I have a day job; this blog occupies a separate place in my life, the most special kind of place I call my private life, the one I don’t share with anyone else, except for the ones who are reading, who are virtually strangers and will only ever know me by the words I write.
So they have to mean something. If all things love means all things love, then love for me comes right here when I’m at the page, and what comes out is an extension of that, it’s an extension of me and who I am. Writing has never meant anything else to me. At best, this is me giving myself permission to write about the things I love fearlessly.
Writers have to do that a lot, give themselves permission, otherwise it becomes a practice in how to please, instead of how to pursue pleasure. What it is is writing for my own sake.
Because I like it.