Dusty bookshelves

Love, a four letter word. Often uttered from romance filled heart throbs and barley ever questioned by the universe.
A definition if looked up, has many explanations yet never to be narrowed down to one simple meaning.

When I wondered the great halls of the British library today, I glanced over at the fifteen foot high shelves filed with novels all branded with names such as Nicholas sparks, Emily Bronte and even aging back to Shakespeare himself. All great writers of love. Those talented ones who could transfer words of such a delicate emotion into text.
But evidentially as I glanced at such great literature, it crossed my mind of what really is this Love we speak of?

Merely a thought, a feeling or simply a belief?

In my opinion, I would say, I can think of it as a thought, also feel it as a feeling. Yet when it comes down to whether or not I believe in it, well that’s a whole different ball park.
Love has no comparison to a myth, a folk tale or ever a childhood belief such as the tooth fairy.
It shouldn’t be stated as a belief, yet more like an experience, something that was a mere idea until it happens. An experience that when the opportunity arises, you should take it with both hands. As an experience like love, can may or may not ever happen again, the chance shouldn’t be given the cold shoulder. An experience that never should be given up on.

Love the oldest story in the book
The greatest story to tell.
And the one you will never forget.

The reminders of regrets

Scars. People have scars, all over them, in all different places. Their like little secret maps, of someone’s personal life, the little roads that get covered up by clothing or makeup. Like the back roads of the country that no one ever knows about. These are the diagrams of old wounds that have big stories behind them. Most of these wounds heal in due course and leave us with these tiny indents known as scars. Yet some of them don’t. some wounds, we carry with us everywhere, even though the cut is long gone, the pain, the memories, the accident, still lies with us, and lingers.
What’s worse, whether it be those new cuts, those horribly painful ones or merely the old wound, which should have healed and disappeared years ago. We all know that one wound that never really did heal, because we never let it rest, and heal on its own, those ones that maybe should teach us something. There normally the wounds that remind us where we’ve been, what were overcome, and what we should avoid the ones we think we shouldn’t forget about. So we rely on these old wounds to stick with us to remind us not to do that silly thing again. Well we hope that, we think that it will stick around to help us. That’s what we like to think anyway; but most of the time, in reality of things, no matter how much we look at the wound, we normally forget the meaning, and usually end up learning that same mistake over and over again.