prismatic

Love is not an emotion. Love is what emerges when every emotion finds a perfect balance with one another. When this balance is broken, when love is broken, the component parts of love spill out onto the floor, revealing ridiculous severed selves of jealousy, rage, anger, passion, compassion, fear, hope, joy and sorrow. Love is the pure white submission of the lesser emotions to one transcendent goal. In love you will feel each of them tug and pull, offset by the others, just below the horizon of understanding, but when the beam cracks, you'll have your hands full of every prismatic piece dissected, vibrant and on the loose. Like subatomic particles descending through the atmosphere, like descending through the levels of hell, love decays through time into her elements, sometimes even to a state of hatred, where all emotions are isolated and vying with one another for dominance. Love was not an external glue that once held them together. Love was the epiphenomenal condition of their chance encounter with inner harmony. How fortunate to find yourself so configured, even for a day. How fortunate, at last, to find it was only an illusion.