Poets have withered their souls, endeavoring to answer the inevitable question: What is love? Women have peeled off skin, men have broken bones, and mothers have given up – flesh and blood – to relay to their oblivious offspring what it could possibly mean. Painters paint the sky when they talk of love, as the sunshine dances on leaves of the tallest trees. Is it love, a little sapling longing for dashes of rays in a dense dark forest? Or is it the gratifying belongingness of a river racing towards to the sea? Yes, everyone breathes and that is enough to survive, to live in a limited way. Love lets you feel alive in abundance, as though the wind rushes and gushes in parts of you that you couldn’t reckon before. I am just another being - shattering in pieces - fathoming the unfathomable. I dream of a day when I will be closer to know, understand and experience love deeply. So far, I have learnt that in scattering away, in dispersing the obsessive notions of self, I find myself alongside love. Where there is less of me, there is more space for love to breathe. I believe that love is not a fleeting emotion, it is a place to be.