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Love

Philosopher Erich Fromm says "Love isn't something natural. Rather it requires discipline, concentration, patience, faith, and the overcoming of narcissism. It isn't a feeling, it is a practice“

I disagree. It's both. Love is a feeling and it is as dramatic, varied, and natural as any other emotion. However, love, as a feeling, depends entirely on the fleeting primary emotions - joy and anticipation -to flourish and thrive. Therefore, if one is committed to allowing others to feel their love, and for them to feel the highest form of the feeling consistently and long-term, I agree it must be coupled (pun intended) with a practice, as Fromm says, that requires "patience, faith, discipline, and the overcoming of narcissism." Love as an emotion is lazy, selfish, and subdued. Sustaining relationships through time is a deliberate exercise ensuring love surpasses this state.

Love has the great potential to grow effortlessly with just absence alone. As French author Francois De La Rochefoucauld says, "Absence diminishes small loves and increases great ones..."

To let us understand what pure love consists of, Charlotte Bronte poeticizes:

"I ask you to pass through life at my side - to be my second self, and best earthly companion."

To be a person's second identity is the ultimate healthy union between lovers. It proposes not to become one, or two parts that make a whole, which is a co-dependency often glamorized, but rather to establish our individuality, our wholeness. At the same time, we cherish and resonate with one another so profusely that they become an extension of ourselves - our second self.

To end with a quote by French writer Edmond de Goncourt to make even more sense of the evasive love: "Today I begin to understand what love must be, if it exists...when we are parted, we each feel the lack of the other half of ourselves. We are incomplete, like a book in two volumes of which the first has been lost. That is what I imagine love to be: Incompleteness in absence."

This lends to the idea again of the second self, but this time, the lovers are books. Two separate books but part of a two-series volume which, when parted, feels a loss, not of oneself, but to an addition that made them even more remarkable than themselves alone. True love is incompleteness in their absence.

Ah, love!