so everyone seems to be writing about love nowadays.

My cliche moment of the day: what is love? Seriously though. Is it the kind of love Noah and Ally had in the notebook-- an attraction and passion so irresistible that even if they tried, they couldn't escape each other, even though it was over a mere summer? Is it the kind of love Harry and Sally had, where they were acquaintances who did not particularly like each other, then grew to become best friends after twelve years who loved each other and got married? Or is love more like the skewed, unromanticized versions we see on television and in movies? Is it like Jay Gatsby and Daisy-- unrequited and unfulfilling, ending in heartbreak, but known to have existed and survived the test of time, even if they couldn't be together? Is it like Jesus' love-- unconditional, worth giving your life for others?

The real question is... why do we try so hard to define love? Is it so that we'll know what it is when it comes just in case we miss it? Or is it because we always have to label everything and understand everything, even things whose purpose is to simply be enjoyed, not fully understood? Yes, I'm guilty of always trying to figure out love and be a lowkey hopeless romantic. But when love comes to me, I'll know what it is. Every kind of love is unique and incomparable, so why do we need to keep trying to one-up each other? So what if Landon took Jamie to the state border so she could be in two places at once or named a star after her. So what if Edward climbed up the fire escape with a dozen long-stemmed roses to give Vivian her fairy tale, even though he was afraid of heights.

I know there's a man out there who is capable of loving me. RIght now, I'm simply concerned with a man who can respect me.

So simply go to church with me and grow old with me and i'm yours.