Myths about what happens in the realm of lost love have spread around the world for centuries.
Some say it turns to poetry, forging itself into words with wings and then flitting off to battle the mind of someone brave enough to catch them.
Some think it seeps deep beneath the earth, becoming the colors that grow out of the ground. Others say it floats high above the earth, becoming the wisps of clouds that grow out of the sky.
Still others believe it is the music in the air, unhearable to all but those brave enough to listen. These brave ones hold butterfly nets and bug catchers, leaping for the notes before they reach the sky and make their way, as they always do, into the mouth of a songbird.
But scientifically, this is not possible.
Art is only made up of the ash left after the candle burns out. And the artists themselves, illogical by nature, believe that they can touch it.
It takes a person entirely more special to reach the bottom realm.
Neither creator nor forager nor scientist, these people, growing rarer and rarer with each passing songbird, have something working that should be broken. The gears in the factory of their hearts are turning, where others shelve poetry and cobwebs.
These people are, according to science, mutants of the species. Their hearts are warm from the turning of gears, the spinning of wool, the recreating of what is lost.
They can actually pick up these pieces of such strong, selfless, sorry love that were never received. They pick them up off the ground and carry them in their pockets. They fill their factories with shells and their factories make new ones. They take one heart and make two, three, five, ten more.
It makes no sense. The lab was stuttering under the weight of such factless truth. The findings, however, are not arguable.
These people have what is, for lack of a more appropriate word, unlimited love.
Logic has nothing to say on the matter.
What they do, you see, is they make all this love and it just shines out of them. Like they're a star or something. And they go around handing it out on the streets; like how some vendors sell apples, or bread, they sell love. And they don't even SELL IT, they just GIVE IT AWAY like it's NOTHING, all of this love free to the world.
They return the hearts full to those empty.
The mutants have been battled, yes. Hearts ripped apart with swords of hate, infiltrated with bitterness, sawed in two with doubt. But it makes no difference - their abnormality is stronger than ours. It's like their factories are surrounded with steel walls, armies of guards and dragons and bridges. It's open to the public, sure, but we can't open it with a crowbar. It's like the unrequitedness of the whole thing doesn't touch them. You take their love, they earn it back themselves, like these terrible powerful monsters full of good intentions and honest hearts.
It's been noticed that these ones' hearts work harder than the others. They work fantastically hard. And never do they even tire out.
It makes no sense.
None of it does.
The loophole in the loophole does, however, answer the one and only question remaining - Why?
Why ever even transfer that love? You can keep it in. Keep your supply. Not risk getting trapped in the disease of giving without receiving, get stuck fallen without any loophole to revive you. Why in the world would you go through with the trade?
We stared at each other in blank plastic goggles. We coughed on the scent of formaldehyde and played with the buttons on our lab coats.
None of us had the answer.
But the loophole does. Find one - ask them. Search for someone searching the ground for empty bottles, someone who smiles at a frown and holds hands with strangers. They will carry a yellow notebook full of robot drawings. They will ask you if it's a swan.
It will not be a swan - it will be a duck. The duck will not be able to fly.
The loophole should be frightening - you should not approach such ones. But you want to. They draw you towards them, make the stuck gears in your heart shake and stumble, as if unlimited love is contagious. As if maybe the few left in the loophole may never die out.
And then your heart sputters alive like a dying diesel engine, and it coughs and groans under the weight of so much time spent alone and you grow to be one of the loopholes. You grow to be hated by the philosophic, scientific, artistic, logistic, and mathematistic communities. You proved your own theories wrong.
So, yes, I guess love can be a limited resource. Congratulations. It just takes more work from our hearts is all, work very few are willing to give. If you are one of those few, then, well, you proved me wrong. And if I hadn't gotten so near the test subjects I probably would say I hate you for putting me out of a job and everything.
Except that I don't.
SIDENOTE: ((This theory was originally created to make fun of science and logic except then I had to follow up and make fun of art and stupidity too so now I guess the whole idea behind this three-part sarcastic rant is to just be a really nice, loving person and stuff? I don't know. I'm kind of really bad at reading my own writing, so, I might just move on after this and talk about pickles and Elmer and roller coasters. Yep.))
(((Also I don't know how anyone would ever use any of this but it'd probably be a good idea to say copyright 2013 all rights reserved THIS THEORY IS PATENTED ALSO I'M REALLY SCARY GOOD AT INTERNET STALKING SO IF YOU TAKE IT I'LL PROBABLY FIND YOU.)))
Some say it turns to poetry, forging itself into words with wings and then flitting off to battle the mind of someone brave enough to catch them.
Some think it seeps deep beneath the earth, becoming the colors that grow out of the ground. Others say it floats high above the earth, becoming the wisps of clouds that grow out of the sky.
Still others believe it is the music in the air, unhearable to all but those brave enough to listen. These brave ones hold butterfly nets and bug catchers, leaping for the notes before they reach the sky and make their way, as they always do, into the mouth of a songbird.
But scientifically, this is not possible.
Art is only made up of the ash left after the candle burns out. And the artists themselves, illogical by nature, believe that they can touch it.
It takes a person entirely more special to reach the bottom realm.
Neither creator nor forager nor scientist, these people, growing rarer and rarer with each passing songbird, have something working that should be broken. The gears in the factory of their hearts are turning, where others shelve poetry and cobwebs.
These people are, according to science, mutants of the species. Their hearts are warm from the turning of gears, the spinning of wool, the recreating of what is lost.
They can actually pick up these pieces of such strong, selfless, sorry love that were never received. They pick them up off the ground and carry them in their pockets. They fill their factories with shells and their factories make new ones. They take one heart and make two, three, five, ten more.
It makes no sense. The lab was stuttering under the weight of such factless truth. The findings, however, are not arguable.
These people have what is, for lack of a more appropriate word, unlimited love.
Logic has nothing to say on the matter.
What they do, you see, is they make all this love and it just shines out of them. Like they're a star or something. And they go around handing it out on the streets; like how some vendors sell apples, or bread, they sell love. And they don't even SELL IT, they just GIVE IT AWAY like it's NOTHING, all of this love free to the world.
They return the hearts full to those empty.
The mutants have been battled, yes. Hearts ripped apart with swords of hate, infiltrated with bitterness, sawed in two with doubt. But it makes no difference - their abnormality is stronger than ours. It's like their factories are surrounded with steel walls, armies of guards and dragons and bridges. It's open to the public, sure, but we can't open it with a crowbar. It's like the unrequitedness of the whole thing doesn't touch them. You take their love, they earn it back themselves, like these terrible powerful monsters full of good intentions and honest hearts.
It's been noticed that these ones' hearts work harder than the others. They work fantastically hard. And never do they even tire out.
It makes no sense.
None of it does.
The loophole in the loophole does, however, answer the one and only question remaining - Why?
Why ever even transfer that love? You can keep it in. Keep your supply. Not risk getting trapped in the disease of giving without receiving, get stuck fallen without any loophole to revive you. Why in the world would you go through with the trade?
We stared at each other in blank plastic goggles. We coughed on the scent of formaldehyde and played with the buttons on our lab coats.
None of us had the answer.
But the loophole does. Find one - ask them. Search for someone searching the ground for empty bottles, someone who smiles at a frown and holds hands with strangers. They will carry a yellow notebook full of robot drawings. They will ask you if it's a swan.
It will not be a swan - it will be a duck. The duck will not be able to fly.
The loophole should be frightening - you should not approach such ones. But you want to. They draw you towards them, make the stuck gears in your heart shake and stumble, as if unlimited love is contagious. As if maybe the few left in the loophole may never die out.
And then your heart sputters alive like a dying diesel engine, and it coughs and groans under the weight of so much time spent alone and you grow to be one of the loopholes. You grow to be hated by the philosophic, scientific, artistic, logistic, and mathematistic communities. You proved your own theories wrong.
So, yes, I guess love can be a limited resource. Congratulations. It just takes more work from our hearts is all, work very few are willing to give. If you are one of those few, then, well, you proved me wrong. And if I hadn't gotten so near the test subjects I probably would say I hate you for putting me out of a job and everything.
Except that I don't.
SIDENOTE: ((This theory was originally created to make fun of science and logic except then I had to follow up and make fun of art and stupidity too so now I guess the whole idea behind this three-part sarcastic rant is to just be a really nice, loving person and stuff? I don't know. I'm kind of really bad at reading my own writing, so, I might just move on after this and talk about pickles and Elmer and roller coasters. Yep.))
(((Also I don't know how anyone would ever use any of this but it'd probably be a good idea to say copyright 2013 all rights reserved THIS THEORY IS PATENTED ALSO I'M REALLY SCARY GOOD AT INTERNET STALKING SO IF YOU TAKE IT I'LL PROBABLY FIND YOU.)))
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