Love is the only form of madness we do not seek a cure for. It intoxicates the rational mind, tears apart the ego, and opens the chest like a wound begging for the world to enter.
Yet, we still love. Again and again. Even after betrayal. Even after silence. Even after death.
Kafka once wrote of a love so profound, it could only survive in letters never sent. We fear love because it changes us. It turns the strong into the vulnerable, the detached into the longing, the skeptic into the poet.
Love, like suffering, reveals. It shows us what we value, what we fear, what we are willing to break for. It is not always joy. Often, it is agony. Waiting. Worry. The ache of wanting to be seen, to be understood. But that agony oh, how beautiful it is. Because it means we felt something in this numb, absurd world.
Love may end, but its echo remains. In the smell of a shirt left behind. In the song we skip on purpose. In the stories we never finish writing.
And maybe, in the end, love doesn't hurt us. It merely shows us where we are already hurting.