Writing is an act of love. Writing about love is an act of bravery.  Not a theory though. For love is too personal a feeling that hardly goes in public; too public a topos that it sometimes becomes ridiculously redundant.

My friend thinks that love is a boat voyage, where she can sit in her greenish sixties-model dress while staring at the person she loves rowing in a boat: A picture inspired by a Fatin Hamama black-and-white movie.

That’s why whenever we both feel an urgent need for love, we sit to watch a white-and-black movie that speaks of a love which we think is unattainable. We’d reckon that if we’d take part in one of those films, then it would absolutely be the ladies no one even notices in the background. Not out of desperation or lack of self-confidence, but out of a realization that a happily-ever-after love story is a mere fictitious fallacy until proven otherwise.

It is hard to believe our need to be loved when the whole world around us sounds on the verge of crumbling. Do we really have a space for love when the world is so messed up?

There’s in us the need for love. There’s in us the capacity to grieve. There’s in us the capacity to heal. There’s in us the forgetfulness of a memory; yet there are memories that can never be forgotten.

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