On Love in Previous Chapters

Oh, Kevin.... Oh, Mist.

Your lyrical odes to love and its churning  wake are so arthritically old. Out of your starry-eyed youth springs such poetry and desperate angst.

Gather now around the time-worn oracle. Sit yourselves down as Old Unka Tip explains that four-letter word to you.

Love isn't thunder and earthquakes and tuneful lyrics any more than heartbeats are blips on a hospital monitor. Love isn't fragrance and colours and spring rain any more than cyclones are red highlights on a meteorologists's weather map.

Rather, love is a simple headache: a low steady beat on the drums of your conscience. Love is a vise: a cold and metallic grip on your soul.

The Beatles were as wrong in their lyrics as they were right in their music. Paul and John, after all, were of your age when they chanted on and on about a crimson and soaring love.

Greyer and wiser, however, divorces, affairs, paternity suits, and settlements later, their wiser selves would have scripted lyrics intoning a different love...a true love; the love we really crave.

Love, you see, is an easy concept  in the bedroom. But it is infinitely more difficult in the bathroom.

Love is a spitting flame on a Friday night, but a smouldering ember over the course of a year.

To young lovers, it's an Olympic sprint: an explosion of muscle and adrenaline. To wise lovers, it's a marathon: a meandering route of easy strides and stamina.

If you listen carefully, you will even hear such accidental wisdom in the Beatles'  youthful salute.  After the hopeful repetitive chorus of  'Love is all you need', the music builds up and mounts to a crescendo.

It does not fade out.

Ever. 

The End

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