In novels and films, love is presented as ultimate. Always unraveled by the other. Seeing life examples contradict this almost comically, I learnt to fear it. As Stephen Chbosky believes; we accept the love we think we deserve. When one is told by their parents that hostile outbursts are “because I love you,” they grow to tolerate it in lovers. Blossom under the impression that cruelty is romantic. An impression so corrupt follows generations, rather a trait of hereditary belief. So, the cycle will come full circle. Young people will self destruct searching for love where their parents don’t prioritize their own. We’re all vulnerable under love. Exposed as nothing but a bare canvas to vilely pierce. First hand, a person who expects reality to mirror their visualized utopia are those bled dry. Left empty of expectation, a pessimists eye. When you fall into the focus— solely on the future— you forget to live. To breathe in the intoxicating pine wood in a forest of variability; that we call love. Loving love is not adoring rom-coms and lyrics with temporary lovers. Loving love is loving the gifts you’ve received from the world, and appreciating the space in between. Loving love is affectionately caring with gentle grazes. Love is all but cruel; if you learn how to merit the amount already given. People will go, your world will grieve if you let it.

Love others as their mind is the only you’ve ever explored. Learn the little things and remember what pains them, what excites. Anticipate their embrace as if you’ve spent centuries and realities apart. Love others as you’d love the world that brought them to you.

The world will love you if you let it.