Because Words are Action...

... and because there is a thin line that separates true love from a mental breakdown.

Why love? Probably one of the most convoluted questions man has asked himself since he began devoting time to talk and think about the subject. For someone who has probably not appreciated the meaning of loving or being loved (as is someone who is willing to take seriously one's being a rock or an island in the midst of people), it would not even be a pressing concern. But perhaps, dear reader, you are not reading this because I am to speak on why it is not expedient, nor efficient, nor healthy, nor wise, to fall in love or even entertain the idea of loving or being loved by someone. It was a question a Philosophy class I was taking has elaborated upon. A wise man emphasized to me how and why there is a need to acknowledge the nature of love as always "for the other," never reflexive but always centrifugal, never "what's in it for me" but "what will make the other happy." When I was asked the question: "why would you love her?" I was stumped, and blurted out very shallow statements. But, perhaps, after mulling over it, I shall attempt to respond to it again:

Why should I love?
I want to love because I am someone who was brought into this world by love. I am a loving being and should therefore succeed in my purpose.
Love is part of my nature. In the same manner was born in the vale of tears due to the conditions and failings of those who came before me, I carry the hopes of those who fell in the dark, wishing to do something about the environment of sadness they have passed through and wished to restore those who suffer to their righteous place of happiness.
I want to love because I myself have been loved yet never was able to return that love adequately. There are things that are given to us as gifts, and a gift is only a gift if the person receiving it does not even feel worthy of even getting considered for it. We can only be able to be part of this economy of gift giving by giving as well, as much as we can, especially when it hurts.
I want to love because otherwise, I believe I would be committing a sin to the world has given me everything in life, good or bad. Should I not love, it would be a disservice not only to me who has not achieved one's purpose in life, but to the very world which allows me to live my life as a person from love and to love.

Yes, I have a right and responsibility to love, and so you will ask, why HER?
It's not because she is charming or because she reminds me of my innocent, younger self.
It's not because she is kind, intelligent and witty.
it's not because I am presumptuous enough to say that she needs someone like me; I doubt it ever crossed her mind.
These might be among those reasons why I would love her all the more, but it was never for those reasons that I would decide to begin saying that I would love her and that my life is tied to and for her.
I love her because... IT IS HER.
Her very person has given my life a purpose beyond achieving my goals in life.
I love her because her happiness and smile has inspired me to do things that I perhaps wouldn't have done otherwise, and because these things have come to give my life meaning once more at that very time I have begun losing sight of it.
Because of her I have rediscovered why I do the things I do.
Because of her I have relearned why I need to appreciate the little things in life.
Because of her the pain of existence has become bearable, if not even light enough for me to carry it with one hand.
Because of her I have learned that I cannot go on living like I used to if I am to be someone of use, worth and service to others.
Because of her I feel alive again, if only for the simple pleasure her smile inspires in me, like the triumphant sunrise or the beautiful tranquility of the moon in all its phases.
Because the few moments I spend in conversation with her give me that hope that I can still be of service or help to those who might need them, even if it should be not her.
Because of her, I want the world to experience the happiness it long dreamed of.
Because of her, speaking about justice has become something that I am implicated in if only for the simple act of avowing to be someone who would protect and stand up for someone.
Because I want to protect her smile, I want to make sure nobody else will cry.
Because of her innate appreciation for the beauty of life, I have made it my oath that everyone can dream of life and should hope once again.
Because her happiness and one smile made me see how my own study of politics, even if it is contentious, bitter and dirty, could and should always protect those who need to be protected and supported, and because they themselves have the right to eudaimonia too.
Because her smile gave me one good reason to live again for everyone.

And I could go on and on and on and on to say what else I can say, yet even if words should be extinguished and I be reduced to ashes, I cannot still say why I should love her. For it is beyond words.

But should she not see it? Should she not appreciate it? Should she decline or reject it?
At this point in my life, for I can only speak for myself in the now when I can no longer change the past nor even prevent what the future holds lest it can be seen in the now, it would not extinguish my hope, even if I shall be deeply wounded.
Her mere existence is enough, her very happiness being secure enough reason for me to go on.
I shall proceed thinking of her all the days of my life, even if it means walking down the road to life alone.
For this memory of her smile, and the unwavering hope, that she shall come to live her life to the fullest, that she shall be happy in her own way and in her own terms, shall let me proceed in doing what I believe is rightful and just, even if it is just a little, is enough.
Even if my unsatisfied hunger and desire shall gnaw at me, her one smile, even if for a passing second, is enough.
For should I insist in loving her in my own terms, even at the risk of her drowning in tears, it shall not be love, but a crime of the highest degree: the violence which mere committal demands that I cease to exist then and there.
For speaking shall never be enough, and any action I should take, even if I should make myself an oblation at the pyre, if driven simply by my own obsessions, shall never be love, but a simple, petty, crime.