W. G.The Woven Guild

Love didn’t come to me in the forms of teddy bears or roses. It came to me in the form of a smile from a delivery partner, a song I’d never get tired of, a bowl of my favourite noodles, and the feeling of nostalgia.

Love should have never had parameters through which we would decide how much, or how well one loves us, and vice versa. It just so happened to become a debatable topic, then an overanalysed concept, and then a fear. Somewhere along the line, we became far too engulfed in irregular grief to focus on regular love.

Love is all around us. The pigeon flying around the town to find a grain of nutrition for her children, the shopkeeper gifting a free chocolate to the toddler just because, the mother buying five pens when her daughter asked for three, and the extra whipped cream on the coffee shop’s regular — it’s all love, just in forms we forgot to include in those parameters.

I can’t think of any extravagant words to include as I write this. Yet, there’s a far more powerful knowing which I hold close — the knowing of my boundless love for writing.

Love was never meant to be a storm of obsession, it was always meant to be the sunshine on a winter day which we often forget to be grateful for. It was always meant to be the way you like your coffee every morning. It was always meant to be like the acceptance which liberated you from the shackles of desperation for closure. It was always meant to be raw, boundless, and undefined.

There’s pragmatism in love, too. To see between the lines of insanity and sensibility of love is an art itself.

Make yourself a cup of coffee, don’t add too much coffee powder in it, though. You wouldn’t like it awfully bitter now, would you?