This is the speech I gave as part of my group's bit about the Symposium. Eagle-eyed readers may notice that this is a simple reworking of a blog I wrote way back on Valentine's Day. Hope you enjoyed hearing it. I certainly know that blabbering about love in front of a bunch of people was embarrassing and awkward on this end, hopefully it was better for you.
Love is. No matter what it is, it always is. And it is always strong. So called "weak love" is a fallacy. It is love or it is not. And while I wish I could address all its many forms, I fear I can't. Therefore, I will stick with the one that harkens to me most: romantic love. I won't pretend to be an expert at it. I can't imagine I'm even all that great at expressing it, in word or in action, but it draws one like nothing else on earth can.
Love is stunning. Just when you think you've got it figured out, it branches out and surprises you all over again. If you haven't lived it, you can't know what it is like, and this will fall on deaf ears, but I'll try to explain it a little bit.
Why do we desire love, worship love, exalt love to the highest reaches, or even, to put it simply, why do we love love? It is all the little moments. Love is the little things. The first kiss. The second kiss. Every kiss. The times when she can't stop crying and all you can do is hold her, whisper that it will be okay, and then go cry after she is gone, because it was so horrible to see her hurting like that. Spending money on movies you watch but never see. Being scared as hell when you meet her parents. Finding out her parents actually like you. Finding out that her parents have stopped liking you.
Love is bittersweet. When you are standing at the airport, and you have to leave, but she has to stay, and they have called your row four times and are about to close the doors, but you need one last hug, a quick touch of your hand to wipe away her tears, and then one last kiss before you run to the plane, knowing that if you look back you won't be able to leave. Long phone calls when you are far away, desperately clutching the phone and wishing it was her hand you were holding instead.
Love is without a language of its own. Words fall short every time. You can't describe the perfect smile, even though you see it every time she looks your way. The blue in her eyes is not any shade known to man, and no one sees that blue but you. The soft sigh of contentment as she falls asleep curled up next to you, safe in your arms. The sweetest laugh as you tell yet another joke that is funny to no one else.
Love is silly. Your dumb little jokes, your mushy moments that nauseate everyone near by. Drawing hearts all over packages to embarrass the other when he has to pick them up at the front desk. Random bouts of flirting. Fake fights.
Love is for the young, but age isn't measured in years. It's measured in emotion. Love makes you young, love keeps you young, and with love you never need to fear death, because you will never die. It's true. Love never ends. It is a forever thing that you get once and never again, and if you screw it up, you don't always get a second chance. But when you have it, and when you can keep it, there is no greater feeling in the world.
Love isn't easy. It can lead to arguments, sadness, the whole affliction. But we love love. Because it never is just about the bad. It is about the good. It never hurts more than it heals.