What's love?

Let me set the context first. I went through some slam poetry/short stories today by this guy called Shamir Rueben. And was awed.

The way he put gorgeously fuzzy emotions into beautifully cold cut, crystal clear words absolutely took my breath away. And revived in me my love for words, bare words expressing meaning impossible to capture any other way, words which require one to sit and craft out a rhythm, words which were once easy for me to come by but have caught rust with time. My hobby, my creative outlet, my space, my own little intimate corner where I can hold an entire conversation with myself. How can I let it go, and why should I?

So here I am, inspired by this young man about my age, achieving things in a direction new for our young country (Slam poetry is a recent phenomenon), and in his wake inspiring a lot of his peers. My title is inspired from his first piece that got me, putting it down here.

"I can't read what's written in fate, but if love is anything like what I have had to take, I think I will prefer to wait."


To all the self proclaimed poets out there:

When your words tumble out in a rhythm
Have you ever realized
How your so called 'artistry'
Is nothing but a web of lies

For writing in prose
Is a creative deception
You are still within the lines
Of following logical conception

Sure it needs fecundity
And there's no denying the flair
But to the true geniuses reading this
Routine is but a despair

Every word I rhyme in this prose
You will be able to second-guess
I accept that rhythm is my crutch
And it is this I have to address

The rhyming schemes I learnt in school
Are reining in my productive mind
They're limiting what I have to say
Maybe even limiting what my thoughts would find

And maybe with this prose
I'm accepting the monumentality of the task
My reluctance to step beyond the short sentence
My inability to crack the mask

But I believe in the wise quotes and courage
Call this a first step to a transition
And if you might have noticed, the length of my lines
Has increased a bit with every addition

I'm forcing my mind to stretch just a little
Like pushing apart the iron bars of a prison
And drawing pride and strength from my own courage
I'm nothing but a (wo)man on a mission.

~

Here's answering my title now. Love is of varying forms, there is no one definition. It could be a person, it could be a book. It could be a tree, it could be a look. Or it could be a hobby, it could be a passion, it could be you rediscovering your love for fashion. (Okay I am rhyming like a kid again.)
But honestly, for me today, love was getting back to writing, listening to other poets let out their emotions in rules of the grammar, taking inspiration from the creativity our world has in abundance and realizing the need to take out time in life to do the things that make you you.

Here's to writing and reading for life, to having intelligent conversations and to striving towards greater eloquence in my speeches.

//From the Alsace region, au revoir. :)