Monday, February 29, 2016

Rhetoric: Love Is...

Note: This rhetoric on what love is [is] the last post in a series of posts this year celebrating February as "the month of love". 
Click to read the rest of the blogs here, here and here
Love is...
Love is a souvenir.
It is masterpiece portrait of some sort.
It clings so tight to the soul so that you wouldn't imagine a heart without it.
Sometimes it is impossible to differentiate the two.
It inscribes itself into its depths, into the depths of the soul, and mercilessly plunders the heart with beautiful memoirs, 
So that it is impossible for a heart to deny its work of art.

Love is like a flower. 
It is like the pottering softness of lilies lying afloat on still waters, smiling melodiously under the glimmery rays of the sun.
If you water it, it flourishes; if you don't, it won't. 
And well-watered flowers do survive the toughest of droughts. 
Just be keen to water yours early for drought will always come. 

Love is a call. 
We may choose to heed its voice or not. 
But there is no promise that its voice brings only the good. 
Because where there is sacrifice, there is sweat and blood also. 
And when nobles are fighting for a good course, vultures are always staring waiting for a catch. 
It is never easy, but it is always worth it.

Love is like opium. 
Some think it is a good thing while others reiterate its wickedness. 
We share both a staggering amount of joy and an overwhelming cloud of wistfulness when under its rule.
The one is soothed by its embrace, while the other is confused by its bluntness. 
It soothes when indulged in reasonable installments, but it harms when it becomes addictive. 

Love is thinking with both your heart and your brain. 
It is knowing that the imbalance will kill you. 
That the one should always be the balance for the other. 
And that you can never fully put your trust in either. 
That is love.

Love is a story. 
Everyone has their own. 
Some love telling theirs, others don't. 
But like all stories, we choose the characters and the audience. 
And like all of them, we choose their beginnings and their ends. 

Love is cruel and unusually tyrannical. 
It is painful. It is sweet. 
Love's cruelty is sweet. 
The wounds of love should not be regretted, because they are scars for the mirror when we wake up tomorrow. 
And we don't hide scars unless we want to forget what they've taught us. 
Someone somewhere has said, "True love asks us to do hard things, almost impossible things."

Love is a mirror.
The more you look at it, the more it judges you. 
The more you gaze at it, the more it haunts you.
It awakes when you awake and lies down as you do.
Without it, there is no confidence in how we look or how we seem to look. 
Every soul that is judged by it has received a judgment that is rewarding. 

Love is like day and night. 
It is distinct and exclusive. 
It is black or white with no sahdes of grey.
And to fall in love is not like a switch. 
You cannot switch it on and off. 
You cannot fall in love and wake up tomorrow to fall out of love. 
You either love or you don't; you cannot do both to the same person all at the same time. 

Love is a journey. 
It is meant to last forever. 
Some choose to walk it for a while, some give up on the way and others go all the way. 
It is only those who've gone all the way that have a say on why going all-the-way is the only best way to love. 

Love is God, and God is love. 
We say so because He has made Himself known to us 
I am convinced that any mortal that hasn't encountered Him can even attempt to love. 
There's no love where there is the absence of God. 
For when all has been said and done, 
After we have loved and 've been loved,
It will all go down to: did we love like we ought to or like we wanted to?


Bonface Morris.

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