100 word challenge: Tell me of the nature of love

Rules: 100 words or less, otherwise anything goes.

you can message me, then I'll send you my e-mail. Include your mailing address. I will put it on my homenode if you want, otherwise I will keep them quiet. published ones will be in a book, handbound by me, sent to all contributing authors.

"Love, the way-weary" - T.E. Lawrence

Love is the realisation that something apart from oneself exists. That is why it is called 'real', or why it can be rekindled in a moment when you see or hear from a past flame again. In an instant, just when you thought it was gone. Why love can be selfless, why you're afraid every time it leaves, why it hurts every time it comes back -- every time it becomes real again. Why it can tear your world apart; because it really is the world, if you care to let it be.

Honey, sickening-sweet, dripping down your throat.
A strike of lightning. Shuddering in atavistic pleasure. A tender hand stoking the small of your back. Fingers twined through your hair, pulling you in close for a kiss.
Chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven.
Warmth at your back in the heart of winter. A smile that sets your heart alight.
Hours lost in conversation, sitting in front of a roaring fire.
The taste of tonic, bitter but strangely quenching.
A broken picture frame. A torn letter. Fingertips gliding over your skin for the last time. A sad smile as you walk away.

69lovesongs For grundoon, Tell me the nature of love

I’m learning that Love is a word used too often and not enough, not like in the movies, isn’t always happy endings, too often absent where it should be but present where you least expect it, completely unfathomable and wonderful because of it. That love can make you hate, but will last much, much longer, when the hate fades away the love will still be there all bittersweet. That it too often remains unsaid. That it fuels everything worth anything, is our one redeeming attribute, that I know nothing about it really, that I’ll keep looking everywhere for it.

The nature of love? It's love when words aren't needed at all. It needs nothing. Sight, voice, touch, even presence - it doesn't matter how much is taken away, she's still there, in those parts of me that can't be taken away. That scares me, in the way only those creatures with secrets can be scared. A part that can't be taken away can't be shed, either. Love is something still human enough to fail. My only hope - the very final one left standing - is that there's still something more than human in it, something strong enough for our sanctuaries.

Chiisuta The smell of green, towering pines on beds of dead needles, eating a daffodil when I was four, twenty-four years after being born I can't get over the sounds of water splashing on algae-covered rocks, real swimming holes in Vermont, camping in the Catskills in winter with a powdered sugar dusting and the shining eyes of dear, bear tracks and bald eagles, salamander in a empty cigarette box, chasing rabbits, wildflowers in my hair, so many stars it hurts your eyes to count them, splashing, finding bones and nests and holes, hiking, shoes off, warm rocks and that's not all.


But indeed, I did not specify what kind of love. Nature of love, love of nature. Nature of love, love nature, LIAR But I'll publish a second shot, if you want to take it.

Chiisuta says
Love is sharing everything, even bad stuff. It's knowing what their hand gestures mean. It's giving them the last cookie and they give it back. It's not caring about boogers or sweat or `did I shave?' Love is never being able to stay up through a movie because their heartbeat is like home. It's making someone feel good because it makes you feel good. It's putting a good face on things. Love tries really hard not to be mean. It's about making a good team. To keep love, remember it's not just something you're in, but something you do.

Lometa says:
On the nature of love
    Honor will not deny the nature of love
    if the reins of abstinence check it,
    if it doesn't go astray of dogged boundaries;
    its heat rage to too great a degree.

    If its flicker spurts into flame;
    its little spring mounts to a flood,
    rankness demands the pruning-knife,
    for glut disturbs self-possession.

    Scents, strokes, snatches of songs
    brush us, overtake us,
    give blissful surprise;
    a conviction that a lifetime's delight
    will emerge at any moment—
    with a smile upon its lips.

    If we remember not the slightest folly
    that ever love did make us run into,
    we have not loved.

Cletus the foetus
Minimus (121 words)

It is possible to rid ourselves of Love in two ways, either by knowledge of a better thing, or by finding that the thing we have loved ... brings much misery with it.

But Love is also such that we never strive to free ourselves of it....

It is impossible because it does not depend on us, but only on the good or advantage we find in the object. If we did not want to love it, it would be necessary for us not to have known it before....

So it is necessary that we not be free of it, because ... we could not exist if we did not enjoy something to which we were united, and by which we were strengthened.

Benedictus de Spinoza. "Short Treatise on God, Man, and His Well-Being". The Collected Works of Spinoza. Trans. Edwin Curley. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985. pp 104-105.

Love is a change in the weather
swirling breeze that turns your head around
cold to hot
back again

Love is the sweetest of paradoxes
You can think of thousands of reasons not to fall
but can focus on nothing else

Anguished, yes
overjoyed, of course
teary eyed and breathless
Love sick - the ultimate example of redundancy


I can't get enough of...

one-track mind
falling fast until realising -- why not fly?

only you are so...

shades of early dawn felt but unseen
expanding to fill the whole sky

crystal remembrance of you and everything about...

gazing at you until you ask why I stare
-- but I am still lost in you and can't explain that...

I want to ask you -- to say -- that I...

my heart flutters it's so hard because what if ...?
I'm not really courageous enough for this

and somehow I can never quite find the words to tell you just how much...

Love is pacing yourself through giant hallways, staying a step back, patiently waiting your turn when all you want to do is race forward and be there first. Love is the unmistakable urge to sing, to dance, to express every sentiment of joy the universe has ever known. Love is the impetuous fleeting to do these things, but somehow finding the courage to keep them to yourself until the moment is right. Love is a gentle sigh that no one else will ever hear, your arms wrapping around something--anything--to ease your ache, tears just behind your eyes, waiting.

The two edged sword fleeting, cruel and painful or life altering with depth and serene warmth that defies explanation. It is the bond of parent and child, the dizzying heights of romance, it is fifty years of devotion and gentle caresses. It is the heady heighten depth of feeling with an undercurrent of fear, it is raw and primal. A bittersweet irony of desire and need causing some to chase the elusive emotion to the detriment of their self and others find a rock that holds them close in the storm of life. It cuts and heals, the two edged sword.

“When I met you…thunderbolts baby” – Aharon Charnov

The nature of love cannot be quantified. Some say that you can only understand love when you have been there yourself. Others stipulate that love must have hurt you in some manner. I say that the nature of love is simply this - when the well being of the one you're with is more important than your own, when their happiness is more crucial than yours, when you cannot imagine your life without that person - that is love.

Lord of Nothings says
Love is when one person is the answer to all your questions about yourself. You are whole in yourself, but you know you are whole because there is this other, and when you think of her you think "oh, okay, it all makes sense now". Its very simple, and very free. It is like a perfect religious revelation, only revelation deals with the truth of the universe and love deals with the truth of one's self.

Love wakes soft on Sunday mornings, warm like sunlight through curtains, relaxed and playful.
On Monday, it goes conscientiously to work, although it aches for home.
Tuesday, it is patient with bad humour and burnt supper, and stern with a recalcitrant child.
On Wednesday, exhausted, love sits back quietly, and Thursday, revitalised, it battles against the enemy who made its goddess cry.
On Friday love is hopeful, and pride swells, as it reads a report card.
And Saturday night, dancing and drunken, it falls passionately into bed, greedy, needy - then sleeps happily replete.
Love wakes soft on Sunday mornings.


When love comes knocking she comes in disguise. She wraps herself in a cloak of joy and perhaps passion and desire. She looks at you with a total absorption, a look that excludes all else. She is the lightning bolt when you touch. She is the flutter and the ache in your heart, the longing.

But her true name is Sacrifice. And whatever the nature of your love, she may drop her disguise at any time and demand this of you.

This is the price of love. If you can answer the call, then you know your love is true.


A vision that shatters your life. Someone new and beautiful, utterly unlike anyone else that ever lived. Watching, wanting, waiting dry-mouthed.

First steps, first words, first dance, first kiss, first flight. Fondest hopes and worst memories shared. Bodies exposed, imperfections found and cherished.

Arrhythmia. Agony. I'm not me anymore lost not good enough please don't leave me where the hell did I go?

Nesting. Finding a spot, picking out curtains. Realising that this is not my house, not your house, but our house. Our future, our home, our fireplace, our garden, our children. Together forever, comfortably interlocked. In love.


Love is not a poem, love is not a simile. Perhaps a metaphor, though for some, "love" is a four-letter word. They avoid that L-word, using every other synonym in the book, though none really mean quite the same. In English, "love" means much more than it might in other languages. We can love a good book, love another person, or love a good fuck, and yet, we use the same word. But I digress. This is not the nature of love, merely what it is, or is not. The nature of love is selfishness. When you fall in love with someone, you must be with them. When apart, you miss them, and when you are together, that need is fulfilled. Love doesn't take rejection well. People will lose many good friends over someone they love. People will kill to have their love, the rest of the world be damned. Love is so selfish that it ignores all else. Unrequited love is the most difficult thing overcome, above greed and lust. There is no "cold shower" for love.

The nature of love is selflessness. When you fall in love with someone, you will do anything for them. You'll wake up early in the morning to make them breakfast in bed. You'll buy them flowers, and wait patiently for them. You'll do whatever you can to make them happy, without expecting anything in return. People will give up friends and jobs for their love. They'll move across the country for love. Those things people won't do for any amount of money, they might just do for love.

Selfishness: 89 words, Selflessness 98 words Things are more than just their nature. People tend to nurture their love as well.

Love is scary
Love is a pit opening in my heart
begging to be fed
Love is agonizing about someone I've never seen
Love is uninvited daydreams of strange fingers in my hair
Love is inappropriate
Love didn't ask my permission
Love took me to the highest peak
and pushed me off.
Love was supposed to play nice.
Love lied.


Love is indefinable as text.
What can we quantify? Floating, wrapped in a warm blanket made up of smells of the person I love, delicate episodic memory, which sea-changes when disturbed. I leave it alone. Disjointed moments. My beloved hanging over a railing, smiling. My beloved on a bridge, behind her a river wreathed in fog. Around her, the scenery, my emotions are graphed against, empathy a blazing quotient in dangerous overload-red. I wonder, sitting on a train moving through dark, whether love is in these frames of memory, elegance in them an aesthetic of need. The statue of liberty, perhaps, in the dying mind of a faceless soldier on a battlefield. My beloved on a bridge, quirked smile, light eyes. Love is many places. Many things.

so we started, you and i,
rainsoaked monday mornings the car won't start, headaches in the dark, curious hands, forgotten appointments and birthdays spent at the office late, burned coffee and upturned spaghetti bowls, sunburned shoulders and sand so hot we had to run to keep our feet from blistering, non-returnable Christmas gifts, pennies spent with grape-smeared fingers, tiny smiles and popcorn in bed, grand slam breakfasts and puke-stained wet wipes, waiting rooms and fevers, graduations and championships, the voices that surround us now,
the warmth and faces
where once in dark alone
lay you and i


Love is a chemical reaction in the limbic system, an increase of dopamine and norepinephrine present in the brain. Serotonin levels increase and oxytocin, a hormone associated with orgasm, is also present. Love feels good, just like masturbation.
Love is inevitable, depressingly predictable. Everyone's neurochemicals are the same. It spreads its roots into all things and shapes the path of the world. Love survives death and pulls through every fibre of the universe, making and breaking human beings as it fuels every moment of life, the sad and ecstatic haze in everyone's background. It can never die, it spans forever because it has to, branching unrequited and unbound, immortal and undead. Love is a nightmare.


To point to love is to diminish it. If asked to point to the universe, what would you do? To list instances of love to build up its shape is futile. How many stars would it take to show you what the universe looks like? Love is nothing, because it is everything and it is nowhere because it is everywhere. Do you think you feel love? Do you think you have it or have had it? Do you think you have lost it? You are completely wrong. You have but viewed a few of the stars. It takes all of mankind to experience love entirely.
Glasshouse. Stonehome.

When sometimes he, this he, only he, might be of the same mind, heart. Sometimes.

Buddha, Jesus, Jizo, Muhammad, Vishnu. The gods and the demons. Their smiles and tears.

Your loose bangs of hair and that hungry grin, your secure hands, your warmth-bare skin, your damp silk lips, growls and hums and sighs like human. So human.

Yes we can sit down, now, look each other in the eyes, with open body language, full attention, and work something out. We can. We must.

Because I am better through you. You are better through me.

Memento mori. Carpe diem.


Love is a self-abusive war of the human subject against the human animal: the battle against a lifetime of mildly but genuinely happy acceptance of the dull present and the nauseatingly inevitable future.
Love is an assault on the ability to produce, framed in terms of the ultimate human productivity - a perversion of creative impulses into a tiring and feverish output. This firehose of emotion is cruelly misdirected at another intelligent being who wants nothing more than to either inflict the same punishment on a counterpart or flee in terror.

One formulation of the lie of Meaning.


She is a harsh mistress. She is times of sheer heart bursting joy, comforting and unbounding happiness as you become a part of another's soul. Within the mistress's gentle velvet glove is concealed a twisted claw. Ready to tear your connection asunder and toss you into a whirlpool of sickening dark and despair, the emptiness within trickling out to taint those around you. Your being becomes consumed with your loss and you search for many things to fill the loneliness that weighs like lead in your heart. She is a harsh mistress that leaves bitter and twisted wrecks in her wake.
This is dedicated to all those who have loved and lost recently. I realise it is bitter but love is a two sided coin, joy and saddeness.


Seeing forever in the blue of your eyes.
Trust and adoration and truth and amazement.
Handfasting and vows, humbleness and promises kept.
A song, a landscape, a memory, a smell.
The dissolving of walls and distance and hurt.
The merging of two bodies, souls, individuals into joy and passion and challenges and hope.
Nurturing, sustaining, teaching and caring.
Aching, needing, touching and craving.
Sharing ideas and worries and families and everyday life.
A journey, a future, a lifetime of together.
Of finding home in the heart of another.
Clarity not tinted by rose.

Whoever described love as a rollercoaster was on to something. You're thrust around, you can't think. It's a heightened sensory state, like your epidermis was scratched off, a simple brush becomes the greatest pain you can feel or the greatest feeling you can feel.
Love is an idea
Love is what you call everything you've ever wanted : the warmth of a mother, the strength of a father, the understanding of a friend, the intimacy of a lover, the mutual gift of each other. It's the only human universal : the fact that we fundamentally lack something and the quest for someone who will give you that something, and to whom you will give his or her something. Not give back but give, in selfless abandon. The idea that you can be complete.


A beast too large for a single cage, love can only exist in the two. It is not the narcissistic infatuation of youth, with its pretensions at suffering. It is not the verbose unrequited passion of the self centred poet, the self destructive obsession of the pubescent girl.
The ultimate leveller, love does not follow those hungry for power. The violent jostler for position, the so called lover of children, the cruel, the insecure, the needy; they are not lovers but addicts.
The ultimate homecoming, love settles into its double nest, sedate but instantaneous, and cannot thereafter be sundered.


Love is a high

Whoever described love as a rollercoaster was on to something. You're thrust around, you can't think. It's a heightened sensory state, like your epidermis was scratched off, a simple brush becomes the greatest pain you can feel or the greatest feeling you can feel.

Love is an idea
Love is what you call everything you've ever wanted : the warmth of a mother, the strength of a father, the understanding of a friend, the intimacy of a lover, the mutual gift of each other. It's the only human universal : the fact that we fundamentally lack something and the quest for someone who will give you that something, and to whom you will give his or her something. Not give back but give, in selfless abandon. The idea that you can be


No one can write about love until they know it. It is that one part of life that can be reached with another. It is the place that only a few people share. This place will scare you, strengthen you, protect you, and even kill you. You can hear the voice of their heart. You give them part of yours. It opens a door that can’t be closed again. No matter what happens, or how far you are, that part of you is part of them. And you will feel it everyday until your end. It is the light that guides you, pulling you back to the home you made.

Clouds. If one wants to know the nature of love, one should look to clouds. There are many kinds of clouds and they are omnipresent, they are everywhere. And if they aren't around now, some will come shortly. When we stop to admire them, which is not says often, we are awestruck by their beauty, their calmness, their ferocity, their ever changing nature, their ability to invoke our imaginations, each one is special and each on is temporal, but they are magical, supernatural. And when we are in a cloud, when we can taste it, it is no longer a cloud.

SharQ My love is like feeling I'm missing her, even when she's there. I am holding her hand, and yet I miss her. She's not part of me, so I feel broken. Even when locked in sweaty embraces of nudeness and passion, I miss her. No matter what I do, I cannot get close enough. The pain of solitude. But the pain is sweet, and serves as a constant reminder.

And here's mine, exactly 100 words, trying to express 3 seconds.

You. You are the very nature and essence of love.
You are my heartbeat accelerating, my startled waking,
because you are not there next to me; my fear, my moment, my indrawn breath of ecstasy. You
are my text, my rest, the only book I want to read, the only music I want to hear. You are distraction in my eyes, the half smile on my face, the hair on my skin rising,
my cheeks flushing, my lips opening.
You are the fear of the moment, and the hope of the future.
For some stories there are no words.