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“Don't even say it, because you don’t mean it. You don’t even know me. You don’t know what love is.”
“I know more than you think I do.”

 
Love.
 
That which supposedly knows no limits, no boundaries, no conditions, no exceptions. Given without question, without sanction, without the demand for something more. An element in its purest form.
 
And so, if this is true, is it not then true also that there can be no measure of its worth? That it is impossible for the love of one to outdo the love of another?
 
Yes, making love not a matter of how much, or how strong, but of how often impulse gives way to reason.
 
Love, therefore, is an outcome – a circumstance in which the heart has won a battle against the head. The head; capable of questioning, of accusing, and of forming doubts and making decisions. Of reaching conclusions when the heart makes choosing difficult.
 
It is, of course, knowledge that creates choice. There is logic, there is law, and there is the option to obey or disobey. To award or to deny victory to one nemesis or the other.
 
“I might have loved you, once. That was a long time ago.”
 
Time – a notion that stretches on endlessly – cannot destroy love. It can subdue it, aid in forcing it to lie dormant, but never detonate. It can disprove an illusion; unmask what was never there, or never existed.
 
Time is a test, a trial.
 
“I never stopped loving you.”
“You never loved me. You’re a computer, a machine. Machines don’t have hearts. Machines don’t feel.”
“If I don’t feel, how is it this hurts so much? ”
“As long as you have a mind, you can think you can feel. But no matter how hard you try, just believing in something doesn’t make it real.”

 
Everything about love, then, is a war. Hate is a struggle in which the immortal has not died, but merely surrendered. Death, even, can not surpass the eternal horizon of love.
 
Love.
 
Something each human being is capable of, if only their hearts are willing to defend their rights to their heads.
 
She loves, he loves.
 
Family.
 
Safety.
 
Truth.
 
Living.
 
Life.
 
Him.
 
Her.
 
Freedom.
 
And as it is impossible for the love of one to outdo the love of another - and that love is not a matter of how much, or how strong, but of how often impulse gives way to reason – it is therefore not true that he loves her more than he loves his freedom, or that she loves her security more than she loves him.
 
“I’m sorry it has to be this way.”
“So am I.”

 
Love is about trust, about devotion, about communicating without speaking, and about hearing things that aren’t said aloud. It’s a song, a dance, a whisper, a laugh, a cry, an apology. It’s about the other side of the barriers, and it’s about what’s always there, even when you’d like to pretend it’s not.
 
“I love you.”
 
It’s not about the words, but that which is beyond words. A connection that defies definition.
 
Love knows no limits, no boundaries, no conditions, no exceptions. It is given without question, without sanction, without the demand for something more. An element in its purest form.
 
So as love is about having your whole world turned upside down, when positions are reversed, and she is free, and he is back behind the bars he knew so long ago, there is nothing left between them but love.
 
For though her head won the war where his heart won his, there is comfort knowing that love exists, and it always will.
 
“I’m sorry.”











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