I wait with baited-breath for a marketing intervention every Valentine’s Day. If there was much love to go around, there wouldn’t be a need to promote it now would there? Of course I see the fallacy there in, marketing is not here to spread love like butter1, it simply sells. But, don’t get me wrong, not yet. I empathize with the global effort underway, blotches of red dotting my landscape, the essential OD’ing on hearts and till-death-do-us-part snuffing by rosy scent. I say this from a vantage point, sitting here in my chair. I have just freshly proclaimed my love for its puffy, yellowy, comfort today.

      This seemed like such a brilliant idea at first, writing a valentine note to my chair. You know, things we truly love. But I get weary too soon3, running out of ideas that would otherwise sustain a healthy supply of February rain. Wicked, wicked love, I say. Amorphous to my grasp, slipping through like grains of sand, escaping my net, out of reach. Ideas like butterflies, fly away. Aflame with valentine passion which only comes tainted with ad campaigns. The show over, I pick my belly up and waddle back to bed.

(Upon waking up…)

      Was Shakespeare in love? We have chafed, written and made movies notioning it4. We cannot confirm with any measure of certainty but we would like to believe. Why? We imagine love feeds creativity, we imagine it to be the source of good and evil, compassion and cruelty, genius and foolery, propagation and population, consumption and poverty. Love is not just all-powerful, it is eternal and pervasive5. If all this be true (let’s assume and tread scientifically), then it’s depressing how we have failed at a unanimous definition till date. Not to mention its characteristics – the kinds of love and their hierarchy. The limitations – How many can you love at one time (Within a subset of a kind. Say, lust). Shouldn’t we be expanding our knowledge, working assiduously towards compounding it, and not letting it get slapped-in-the-face by the viral nature of stupidity, myopic gifts and lame bunches of over-priced lilies6?

      A lack of definition brings me to the subject of ambiguity. A favorite of mine, this sweet noun tickles the brain endlessly. Love is ambiguous, and it inspires such merry doubt! – Another love of mine. When I get down with these two, it’s a ménage à trois you can only fantasize about in your wildest dreams. Be careful though, if you said aye. Oftentimes and most, ambiguity and doubt will behave like ex-es, pitiful excuses for our own failings.

      I know I must persist, continue this ardent exploration, dear valentines. But I have just been distracted by certain erotic love poems, stabbing my twitter stream bloody.


1 She often stands in the coldest aisle inundated – butter with olive or canola oil? She can’t believe it can’t be just butter, for heaven’s sake.
2 A misspelling is akin to spilt milk, in that it involves another liquid called ink.
3 She ages like coffee, tannic and a shade darker. She prefers tea in old age.
4 She keeps mistaking Joseph for Ralph Fiennes, especially in her wet dreams. Other things foggy with age, her preferences remain clear.
5 Surely anonymous will stand up and shout, “Blasphemy!”? She wonders if everyone can choose to be anonymous in the land of free.
6 She read the fine-print. There was an expiration date on the cool-factor in roses.