A Story Without Love
There is no such thing.
For as long as there is grass, there is the rain to caress and love it, and the insects to find shelter in and love it, and the cows to eat and love it. If there are skies and trees and birds, there are poems about them, and what are poems but love in ink, love in type, love in blood and thoughts? As long as there is a world, we are living on it–loving it, hating to live there sometimes but loving it all the same, with all of our hearts, because it is what we have–and if the earth did not exist, if there were no planets, no stars, there would be God, and He would love Himself, because one has to learn to love oneself to some degree to be able to exist. Maybe there was not even a conscious decision on God’s part to create what He created, but He was simply there, full of love, and that love is what sculpted the earth, what lit the stars aflame, what finally, crazily, wonderfully brought us to life.
And even if there was nothing again–if certain people are right, if there is no God, or if He is not immortal and falls finally like any other man, clutching His frail bones, full of hope, full of regret, full of grace–even if there was nothing, nothing is simply the absence of something. And Nothing would be lonely, and yearn for Something–and love would be created–and Something would exist, falling into Nothing’s arms, and they would embrace like lovers–and it would all begin again and again.
There is never a story without love. If love is not a main character, it is waiting in the wings. If there is no love, there is always the possibility of love, and so love can never not exist. This story can never been written.
And that is, possibly, the best truth we have.