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By Dominique Blain


For millennia, mankind has been talking, writing, painting and singing about love.

The sheer volume of material about love is the only thing that makes love real. Despite its efforts to look into the phenomena that is “being in love,” the scientific community only ever makes love rational and orderly — which, when it comes to love, is utterly counterintuitive, not to mention unappealing.

The bigger beauty of love, like that of religion, is the leap of faith: it only exists because you believe in it. Although it certainly helps that millions others believe in it. That makes love awkward, irrational, and frustratingly human.

There is anecdotal evidence of its existence and science takes stabs at dissecting it occasionally, but in the end, the only way love (or religion) will ever exist is if mankind persists in believing in it. To the rationalist, the symbols and stories will never be enough and the convergence of millions of minds around the world, independently of one another, can be wrong.

To the rationalist, the vague auras of love lead to wasted cash, wasted time and wasted energy. And to be fair, there is no doubt many a savvy marketer has taken advantage of the lovelorn and loveless.

But for those of us who have found love and lost love, this stinging but utterly indescribable feeling will remain deeply personal and will never adequately be translated into fact. Nor will it ever be satisfyingly described to those who choose not to believe in it.

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