As February rushes in, red roses line corners of busy streets.

Plastic hearts shimmer through the window panes, and Cupid’s cards sell out on shelves of every store. We shuffle through the eternal words of this affliction: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” or “Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with gold and silver light…” for all the beauty in the world with love’s sinew is bound. But what is love? So celebrated, so discussed, and yet, illusive like a ghost, it hovers over all of being without ever being caught.

There is no poetry or music without it, even the eternity is naught. Some say it is insanity that temporarily a soul possesses. Some say it’s an attachment bond. It’s certainly not brought about by a plaster sculpture of a cherub. Indeed, Cupid’s arrow was meant to be Psyche’s curse. Yet, let’s face it — without those cursed arrows, beauty itself vanishes from earth.

And those that lament their life without such an affliction focus only on romantic love. And while this type of love brings forth the most artistic of expressions, it is the most rudimentary of loves. The love that one must focus on is bigger. It encompasses the universe at large. It is the compass that steers the ships of all existence and makes meaning out of lonely atoms floating by. It’s the entanglement of quantum; it is what makes us one.

If I were to define such a concept, I would say that love is warmth. It is a feeling of not being lonely, even when one is mostly alone. And what then makes us feel connected? Is it the flame of lust or the flame of hope? I would say it’s an ethereal feeling, like some invisible network of support. It goes by many names, one of them being God. Old Egyptians named it Ra, the sun god, the father of all. If I were a poet, then it is a rhyme, a cadence to which a river flows. It is a clock by which an eternity is measured when one awaits a phone call or a simple word.

Love is not something that is given. Love is the ether that is always there. It simply takes a moment to breathe it in, and it takes a moment to exhale. So, if you seek for love to be delivered, like a package by a mailman to your door, then be warned that Valentine won’t be arriving every single year at every door. The one and only infinite supply in us mortals is that of the divine. It’s how a mother’s love is endless, no matter how many babes she has. Love is the only thing that won’t run empty. Remember that when you prepare your single meal and smile at the wrinkled faces of strangers — they, too, have the divine in them.

When you feel alone, please do remember to nestle under a tree branch and listen closely to the song of the nightingale above you, and understand what they report. Close your weary eyes for just a moment and think of roots beneath the carpet of green grass. Those are your subterranean embraces, like primordial umbilical cords that give us life. It is this ancient conversation, between the trees and birds and beasts alike, that keeps all living things connected since the birth of time.

And you, the loneliest of beasts, with so much apprehension, so much knowledge, missed this love affair and found yourself stuck in some unpleasant dream. Look at the landscape of your very being. Here’s a peak and there’s a valley outstretched, in between an ocean of unspoken verses your quiet soul has written while you slept. spt