Sometimes we believe that whatever we are doing is right. Not because it truly is—but because saying certain words helps us feel better. Words calm our minds. They give our brains a temporary rest. Maybe that’s why we talk so much to ourselves. Maybe that’s why we explain our pain instead of healing it.
Most of us are tired—tired of overthinking. And overthinking has a strange way of pulling us toward darkness, toward sadness, toward something that quietly looks like depression. In the middle of this mental noise, one question keeps appearing again and again, no matter how much we try to avoid it:
What is love?
I’ve tried to understand it. I’ve read books, watched movies, listened to songs, and even tried to write about it. But love refuses to sit still in one definition. The moment you search for “love” on Google, you are buried under poetry, novels, dramas, and films. Everyone talks about it as if they know it. As if they have solved it.
There are even rules of love. According to those rules, not everyone is meant to fall in love. And yet, look around—almost everyone claims they are in love. If we observe closely, maybe 70 to 75 percent of people are in love with someone, and the rest are married. That makes me wonder:
Is it really that easy to fall in love?
And then another strange truth appears—most people who say they are in love are still single. Does that mean no one truly gets their love? And if someone does, does love disappear once they have it? Or maybe they were never in love to begin with.
Because if love is real—if it is deep—then how can someone simply stand up and walk away from it?
I think we confuse love with attraction. We see someone beautiful, interesting, different—and we name that feeling love. But where does that feeling actually come from? How is it created?
Maybe it comes from lack.
Maybe we fall in love with what we don’t have. With what feels distant. With what our mind is curious about. That curiosity pushes us to read poetry, watch dramas, and build fantasies inside our heads. Slowly, those fantasies begin to feel real. So real that we start believing we are in love.
But maybe we are not in love with the person at all.
Maybe we are in love with the feeling.
The excitement.
The imagination.
The escape from our own thoughts.
And when the feeling fades, we blame love—without realizing that love was never the problem.
