Love is one of the earliest concepts I remember being introduced to. It was the unbreakable connection between family. You could fight all you wanted and the love stayed strong. I never understood that love; it never seemed as strong as the anger I held as a child. Yet something soothed the anger, shrinking the blinding flames singeing my emotions. I still never felt it outright, but in hindsight that was my love for my family. I still felt wrong about how I loved. It felt weak, simple, and easy to lose. Surely love should feel like more than cheap, thin, one-size-fits-all gloves. Despite wanting to love differently, there were problems at home. The glove still got wet, was lost, or formed holes. My fingers still froze. I wish this paragraph was meant to go somewhere, unfortunately this isn’t the time for that to happen. My discomfort about my lack of love still has a stronger effect than the love itself when it comes to family.
Fortunately, I have found a love that feels good. It has a warm, calm effect. It is wrapping yourself in a blanket fresh from the dryer. I feel that love for a bird. She knows who she is and she’ll hate me for writing this. It’s often said that writers are mainly motivated by their pursuit of sex. Personally, I would agree with that, but not on this occasion. Today I’m simply writing for marmite. You see, love is absolutely not something I understand. I do, however, embrace it. To be specific, love comes from a friendship through which you often stay up until near the dawn discussing your lives, school, politics, the mundane and everyday, you also share in your adoration of a particular trio of British automotive journalists, police officers who are reflections of the best and worst parts of you both, a small, fictional paper company based in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Most importantly, love is understanding what it can mean for a bird to have a complete and utter disregard for marmite.
