When night begins, I happen to discuss more or less meaning-of-life-related topics.
You know, I hate being asked what love is. Theoretically, it has a lot to do with philosophy: an ambiguous formulation, transcendence, an attempt
for some unbelievable spirituality and a great depth of thought, but by its actual content - it's no more than some trivial talks on a Friday evening over a cup of tea.
After all, people who are concerned with this question do not feel love, they are mostly inveterate bachelors or some exalted teens.
I myself have stopped asking myself what love is at the age of 15 – when most parts of my being was hit by a virus «First love-2011».
Love is somewhat similar to pain – when you feel it, you don't think about what it is. You just feel it and recognize it which is enough for you.
Just imagine a cat. What does it look like? I imagined a red one, sitting and licking itself. Thick fur, long tail. Which cat would you imagine? A white one? The Egyptian Mau? All of them are simply cats. Word is an arithmetic mean of all existed representations of cat.
In fact, love, from the point of a common sense, does not differ by any means from our cat. Love is what we think about it.
For me there is no need to explain through a prism of all its characteristics what love is or what I intend by saying "I love you". It's enough that I feel it. It's enough that love exists in my own system of perceptions.
