I sat on my back porch this morning and watched as the blackening clouds above began to create a tempestuous atmosphere – scattering my notebooks around on the table. I saw two small butterflies mating in the midst of all this dismay and watched as they were thrown about in violent wind gusts and torrential rain. Torn apart, then hurtling towards each other again in order to finish despite every type of disorder imaginable. Gripping onto one another regardless of the fact that neither creature could provide any reasonable argument of what is it they expect to accomplish through all this insanity.  Driven solely by subconscious requirements, and a complete disregard of any reasonable voice within telling them to go home alone where it is safe.

I snickered to myself, because I as watched these frail insects endanger themselves and each other repeatedly, I was aware that it was merely due to some type of instinctual desire. Nothing more than sex and survival. A mindless act embedded deep within their DNA.
However, if I was ever asked to give the definition of “love” in humans,  I would describe this very scenario before me.

Love is very capable of becoming a type of institutionalized abandonment of all rational thought.
It is the wings that continually push us towards each other, unaware of the pitch black around us ripping us apart.
Love is collecting every type of type of madness and yet smiling each morning – the way the mentally ill stare off in the corners of dirty asylums, oblivious to anything else.

And sex and survival are merely just an excuse.