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.