Love. What is this strange thing that we write about? We authors. Authors of life and of the world. This thing that we examine and turn and poke and prod at, trying desperately to understand the burning feeling, the intense and inexplicable fear that consumes our minds and hearts and souls. What is this thing called 'love?'

            So wretched and enchanting is it that it has fascinated centuries of writers, that it has inspired writers of every age and caste, that it has become a common obsession for so many. It is involuntary and uncontrollable. We love without logic or reason or choice, but, rather, it is thrust upon us, without our consent. If this is not proof of destiny, then I do not know what is. That we are destined…no, 'doomed' to love or not.

            It comes without warning, and it has no tell-tale signs. It is merely absorbed into our being, molded us to it, shaping us without our knowledge, until we realize what has overtaken us. Slowly, it consumes. A different shade emotion for every lover.

            For me, it has been fear; I, who have learned not to fear, who have left fear behind with the last vestiges of a despised childhood. I, who condemn fear as weakness, fear love. It is marked by the most intense knot of fear I have felt in many years, an illogical fear without reason or basis. Yet, there it is, knotting its way around my stomach and bowels, all around my innards and, finally, around my heart.

My mind stumbles, disoriented by the sudden and unwarranted rush. It reels, unsure of how to interpret the stimulus that bombards all my senses. It knows not what kind of disaster the body could have been faced with to elicit such a response. But the heart knows. The heart knows all, and nothing can move a heart. It is immovable, unchanging and eternal. Time can coax the head into controlling the body and overriding the heart, but the truth remains, buried under the layers of silt life deposits on us.  For some, our silt is abandonment, ruin, betrayal, and, for others, it is merely fate

So, we wait, O Destiny, O Fate of fools, poor heartsick fools. We shall see how kind the Almighty is in dealing out love. Or we shall see how cruel, in dealing out wistful, bitter longing. No earthly man can tell, how our Fate will play us. Our hearts are at its mercy.