You won't believe how difficult I am finding it to write an article on "love.
" I see so many authors hitting away at the keyboard as though they can't get their ideas out quick enough, then they will shutdown their Mac PCs and a smile of mere satisfaction will spread across their faces.
The relief is so apparent you could almost taste it.
And they are done.
They have done what they were supposed to do.
They can go back to their lives once more.
Because what they have written is fabulous, helpful advice.
And yet, I sat there for hours on end, wondering: Love should not be any of those things.
And so I glanced through the articles which is mainly a huge mass of step-by-step guidance on "How To Make A Relationship Work" and "Where To Find Love Again".
But, it seems the more of these articles I read, the less convinced I am.
And then it suddenly strikes me; I can't offer any guidance because I am not a counsellor.
Nor am I a psychiatrist.
I am a writer.
And as a writer, I want to share my experiences with you, the reader, not dictate about something you already know.
So, what's love? Is it an expression? A feeling? An emotion? A gesture? No.
It's all those things.
I had that feeling of being in love, once.
The first "honeymoon" stages of a happy and hopeful relationship.
Followed by living together and then just awaiting the day when marriage and finally kids, would arrive.
And then I would be whisked off my feet onto a great stallion by the man of my dreams and we would ride into the sunset.
It didn't happen.
I hit rock bottom whilst the supposed "love of my life" hit the bottle.
And then the beatings, hatred and abuse followed.
Which wasn't a part of my fairytale at all.
But I made a decision that night.
I packed my bags and I left love behind.
Unconditional love.
Hmmm, the supposed neverending love between a parent and their child, according to the definition in the Oxford English Dictionary.
And yet I can't seem to define it in my life.
Not if I account my mother often reminding me of how much she despised me and would drum into me how worthless I was.
Some days I was too frightened to leave my bedroom because I knew she would smack me or "accidentally" shove me into the table.
My father was my dependable rock; until that rock crumbled.
And I was left alone.
Still waiting for the word "love" to float through our household.
I never heard it.
And so love did finally came when I spent my days with my head shoved into fairytale books; my only companions and sources of happiness.
And my love for writing soon followed.
And with the help of new friends, certain family members and a passion to express all my feelings on paper, I felt something pass through my soul and it almost caught my breath.
I'd discovered love.
I'd discovered it through support, encouragement and friendship.
Now, look at me? I can't stop writing or smiling and it's not a smile of relief, it's a smile of happiness.
Yes, happiness.
So I've come to realise, there are people who love me after all.
Whether it is my father or my best friend.
And sometimes, we have to give up the thing we love the most in order to regain control of our lives before we lose our souls, or worse, sense of who we are.
The truth is, it doesn't matter what happens in life.
We always see that the grass looks so much greener on the other side.
But that doesn't necessarily mean it is.
One thing remains certain: there will always be someone out there who loves us.
And who knows, maybe that person is someone we haven't even met yet.