literature

The Language of Love

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And so I ask myself today, “is French, really the language of love?” The answer is quite clear – while remaining exactly the opposite. The French have no deeper a passion in the meaning and subtle nuances of their culture’s spoken tongue, than we have of ours. Their vocabulary is no more vast or voracious than our own in the matters of fervor and lust, but, the world seems to find a broader beauty in their expression of it all.  

In all good consideration we must realize how the language of love is a language that cannot be taught, cannot be learned, and can never truly be spoken. The language of love is only one of our many senses. It can be touched, you can feel its scent upon your face, and it can be heard as clearly as a thunder clap.

The language of love can be expressed in far more that the brush of a hand against another – and more so in the stroke of a brush on a canvas. It can be heard in less the whisper of one than the delicate hum of the strings upon a violin. Love is a talent unto all of us and specialized by few who dedicate their souls to its bidding. It is not always a series of words bravely spoken, or a heartfelt song clearly sung. We can hear it in the winds of the autumn breeze, and we can feel it in the air of those whom with it we share.

Love is a frail entity in and of itself, but paired with the fire and vehemence to burn in its grace, and it will become a great beast, indeed. A powerful creature, brought down by no mortal or god. Though it can be chained – and it can be broken and bled – it will not abandon its foundation. For without this power, we would fight for nothing, live for nothing and die for nothing. Whether it a human or a possession, our desires to savor this flame burns within us all.  

Alongside this great strength, the touch of that which we love can bestow upon our skin a pure and eloquent form of peace. The breaths we take are filled with a light only we can see, and warmth only we can feel. Every moment we close our eyes, we fear of waking to a dream. Such perfection could never be real?  

And so, I conclude in this notion, the suggestion that the French are no more beautiful, no more loving and honest, and no more exciting than any other manner of the sport. Love is something we may never master, nor may we disregard. And once you have felt its ever sweet seduction upon your breath, you can never forget its taste.
Something sappy and thoughtful I wrote several years ago.... 2008 to be exact.

Enjoy. :love:
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byzho's avatar
Congratulations on your fine work. They are very magnificent

:love: :eyes: :star: :star: :star: :star: :star: :heart: :rose: