Love.

The emotion without having reason.

The expression without understanding meaning.

Love is the songbird, the canary that you can’t vigorously take by force without it flying away, but the gentle creature, that breathes and observes you, until it’s comfortable enough to serenade you with its voice. Its music to your ears.

Love is warmth; when everything else gives you frostbite. Love is the security of wrapping yourself in a cozy blanket, giving you a shell from the ever so distant outside world of hatred and judgment.

Love is taking her on a walk, even when she’s upset, and by not even having to say anything at all she knows you’re listening to her heavy heartbeat, as you both stride into the unknown, together, one step at a time.

Love is the hungry dog that follows you everyday, requesting just a sliver of scraps, but not by choice, but from his abandoned owner, never to see again, never to lay safely in a protective house, and only left to ask for just a little bit more to survive his harsh and stricken reality.

Love is when you give him your whole lunch.

Love is when the boy of your dreams asks you to the dance, but you say no, because you’re already committed to that geek you like to call the brother you never had, in that math class he’s been helping you get through all semester long; that geek who actually makes you smile everyday, and who’s dedicated to you just for being you.

Love is seeing that boy imperfectly, with all of his flaws and scars, yet despite the number of times he’s been kicked against a locker, you kick yourself the same number of times for not accepting his invitation to dinner, only because you’re afraid of what everyone else might say.

Love is a soldier, who even with year after year of training, crawling through mud, getting the equivalent to no sleep, and marking targets with his rifle, refuses to pull that trigger when faced right in front of his enemy.

Love is the understanding look that two soldiers give each other, guns pointed at each other, but eyes locked with each other’s vision, understanding that they’re both different, both in what they believe in, what they fight for, but understanding that they’re both human, and that humans were never designed to decide when their neighbor should lay in his grave.

Love is the crying African mother, who screams as her son is being taken from her by the gangs and factions of the drug lords, the war keepers, the militia who does anything but to create civilization when they only create child soldiers.

Love is the woman marching in a protest in Afghanistan, trying to persuade the country to let her work, so she can afford buying enough food to feed her twins she can’t stop thinking about, day after day.

Love is when she dies, the attack of the Taliban, who won’t stand to see their country be defiled against God, the leaders no one looks up to, storm to end such protests.

Love is when her children were the last things she thought about before giving her final breath. Love is the Taliban leader, who goes home and cuts his wrists, because the feeling of blood pulsating like fire from the veins of his arms hurts less that thinking about the number of actual sins he knows he’s committed that day, each strike of the razor tallying the number of people who have fallen because of the smoking barrel of his gun.

Love is the mute and mentally handicapped father, who despite doing everything he can to express his most sincere compassion to his daughter, finds her laying in a tub of black water, because she can’t deal with the amount of people at her school taping “daughter of dummy” to her back, and spitting on her shoes, telling her to make her father say something about it.

Love is that father running her to the hospital, sprinting to the maximum of his capacity while holding her in his arms.

Love is being able to see her eyes open again, her eyes that first see a sign held by her father that says “I know I’m not perfect, but I love you more than anyone else could ever dream.”

Love is the dramatic burial of a goldfish, by a kindergartener who’s had her first heartbreak.

Love is the kindergartener in 50 years at the funeral of her parents, whom she knows that have given her the best life anyone could’ve given her.

Love is the feeling between two people, two people who know that they’re different, two people who have done everything wrong they could’ve done in their life. Love is knowing that that person standing across from you is far from pure, but also knowing that so is everybody else in this God forsaken world that we live in. Love is seeing that person in a new light, love is the exact opposite of judgment. Love is the emotion that will never give us a reason. Love is the expression we give, but can’t fully explain why. But love, love is the one thing bringing this world together, tragedy after tragedy, hug after hug.

Love is knowing you never have to be perfect, to be with the imperfect people around you.