Extemporaneous Speech - Getting to Know Love
It’s so much easier to accept that you are unlovable than to see the ways the world shows you’re loved. Admit it, it is. We are so convinced that we are alone, and although no one indeed understands us better than ourselves, we have to be reminded that we are cherished and remembered in little ways. For me, I know I’m loved when I get home from school and I’m met with screaming, noisy little lovebirds greeting me by the door. Because they're birds— that's their way of saying hello. We don’t always have to declare it through those three words we know so well. Sometimes, love is making handmade gifts for people’s birthdays. Love is the silent apology of our parents, by cooking our favorite dinner after an argument. And there are times love is running to the person you’ve seen for years but barely known, and you pour your heart out in grief.
Love is all but just romance, and not all forms of love are good or healthy. There are gestures of love so subtle, it doesn’t feel like love at all. But remember— love is all-encompassing. Love is painful and full of truth. We can’t define it as a singular thing, as we see things differently from everyone else. How could I make meaning from what might not be the same for others? What is love for me, if all I have stated then aren’t considered as loving a person? To me, I know love is that feeling of knowing someone to the point where we associate different objects and concepts with them. I love someone, or something, when it’s etched at the back of my mind and I see it everywhere; all the small, mundane details are given meaning. And if somebody else knows me that well, that they see me in pictures, music, and colors, then I trust that they love me too. Just as I'm reminded of a close friend as I hear the song Migraine by Moonstar88, they see me in the plaid button-ups at thrift stores. it's my favorite pattern. my favorite kind of shirt. Just as I remember the smell of detergent, even a pair of round, thick glasses, I remember my best friend, and he remembers me in yellow items, because that’s my favorite color.
We’ve convinced ourselves so heavily that our worlds are desolate cities— blocked off from the rest. But there are railways and bridges that connect us to each other, even in meaningless keychains and the hoodies you wear to school. That’s a testament to how much you can care about someone without words. You might not feel it now, but somewhere in your city is a person who remembers your favorite color. Your favorite song. And even if I deny myself the luxury, I know people care about me. Because I’ve lived enough to know love persists in the world, and with it, I was loved whole. Perhaps without knowing it, so are you.