There is something deeply discomforting about people proclaiming their search, or achievement, of love on their blogs and other online exhibitionia. It discomforts me.

Now on one hand, one could say that because I am a lonely tart, these things make me envious. But no, it isn't envy. Envy is a bitter, bitter emotion, and is accompanied with a desire to emulate, or acquire. This discomfort is milder, and accompanied with a strong desire to distance myself from such an act. There is no longing here.

I think I know why.

(But of course I do, the former was just a dramatic preamble)

Something about me believes that Love, like all other important things, should be kept inside. That it benefits from a quiet sort of reflection, uninterrupted by the vain egoism that accompanies these obviously exhibitionistic endeavours.

I'm of the the belief that anything published online carries with it a statement to three people - self, addressee, and public. A statement to self - that I am in love. A statement to one's beloved - I love you this much. A statement to the public - we are in love. Some may contend the last point, but why else would one chose for it to be on a public domain? A blog is not a diary. It is a performance.

In light of this, one questions the need to make a statement to the public. It might be the same as having the status of being attached, but I disagree. People agree to tell others that they are attached for very practical reasons - firstly, to communicate the nature of the relationship between the two of them, and secondly, to shut out other possibilites, for the moment. A public declaration of love, with all its romantic flower power, is not quite the same.

So we've established that there's an audience. But who? I have an image in my mind, I must have got it from the television. Passionate cassanova makes fervent and sincere declaration of love in the middle of rose-laden park, to pretty young lady who is oblivious to what's coming. Ladies on the street stop, look, and sigh.

Herein lies the irony. A public declaration of love is a testimony to one's ability to love. One's prowess in the romantic arts. It's not just for the beloved - it's also for the would-be suitors as well. A public declaration of love is, quite possibly, the opposite of simply saying we're attached - because the focus lies in the fuss, and not in the two individuals. Instead of blocking out possibilities, it embraces new ones.

The other thing is, in something as subjective as love, any declaration is always wrong. Love is in the moment, when someone says those words, that phrase, that just resonates within the moment. We can reflect on it, and learn lessons from it, or even map out the beautiful implications of it all. But trying to capture the emotion is nearly futile, apart from that grasping, ethereal sense that is left in our hearts.

There is a point when pain crystallizes into a shell.

What is a shell?

It implies something hard, cold, and introverted. It shields something that is vulnerable, and hides the tender flesh that resides within. Protection - a shield to keep the elements out.

When we think of emotional shells, we envision a hard, calcified state. We think of words like jaded, bitterness, and dullness. We see a guarded stone wall, surrounded by a murky moat.

But a shell can be beautiful too. Observe the swirling patterns on the intricate hexagons of the tortoise. When I think of shells, I envision graceful spirals and swirls, a lovely multitude of colours. Its beauty does not fade, not even upon closer inspection - there may be speckles of dust, gentle stains, but it is no less beautiful.

Perhaps this is the answer then, to let pain transform oneself into the most beautiful of shells. A shell that chronicles the patterns of experience.

Pain is but a medium for the art form that is life.

Continue to live. Not in, but with this shell.

Live a life, that all may appreciate.

Where does love begin?

Where does protectiveness stop being just an extension of ego and power, and become an altruistic desire to make another happy?

When does being provided for cease to be a wilful pleasure of self-entitlement and acquisition, and turn into a genuine gratitude and thankfulness?

Where does love begin?

In a little foolishness, and a lot of faith. In fate lies sincerity.

Love doesn’t begin with two people in love. Love begins with two people who believe in love.

It's said that humans are one of the most adaptable creatures in the world. We've used our intelligence to make clothing for cold weather, construct weapons to hunt animals, cultivate agriculture where food is scarce, and we've built shelters to shield us from the elements. We adapt through ingenuity.

Yet how is it, that after two millennia, the human heart has yet to adapt to the condition of being alone? Is there an ingenious solution to this problem?

Surely the emotional calcification of the heart is not the best that our human adaptability can come up with. It is akin to shutting down the liver if it cannot successfully purge the body of toxins, or clogging up the lungs should they be unable to inhale.

The function of the heart is to love. The symptoms of a diseased heart - pangs of loneliness, more acute than the worst of hungers.