By Beth Winze
Humanizing the meaning of love into a definition of a few sentences is unmanageable. Containing its essence would be like draining the ocean of all its content – impossible and futile. Love is exuded in many forms – not restricted to one behavior or mindset. For me, I have yet to express a kind of love exchanged between two soul mates, but the love I do have is potentially more untamed than most. Writing. Just like a married couple, I bear an intimate relationship with my words I scatter on a white page. I bare myself – a naked soul – to the desires of my pen. Heartache, just like a lovers quarrel, weigh heavily in my spirit when the very thing that gives me so much meaning, fails to aid in conveying my thoughts. I, like any relationship; experience frustration when my mind and pen refuse to work in unison to create the masterpiece my heart keeps right below the surface. There are days that pass, seemingly wasteful, where nothing happens. My mind becomes an ocean in which no thought stirs. The surface tension is there, most definitely. I can graze the surface and know that my time is imminent. That just beyond this calm, there is a raging inspiration that will wash over and consume me. The wave will throw me and bring me up for air just before it rolls me under again. Powerless to its force. A feeling this powerful and unpredictable can only be hinted as love. Irregular heart beats when my words present themselves in a manner that awakes my inner possibilities. When my mind is consumed with creativity, it is all I breathe. I become the words that I bleed onto the page I am writing on. I am my own heartbeat. This is love.