Confession

I don't know that anyone is reading this. In fact, I don't much care either way. This blog was created as an outlet for my thoughts. (I would prefer painting, but it's messy and more time consuming; plus it can invoke too much of my perfectionistic personality.)

So, current thought: I saw the following quote in a friend's away message (yes, I am an away message stalker):

That is the true season of love, when we believe that we alone can love, that no one could ever have loved so before us, and that no one will love in the same way after us.

--Johann Wolfgang von Goethe; German dramatist, novelist, poet, & scientist (1749 - 1832)

What exactly does that mean? Is that supposed to make sense to me? Allow me to offer some context. As proof of my cynicism, after reading a collection of short stories called What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, I wrote a term paper about how Western society has changed the definition of love so many times that it now exists as nothing more than an empty concept for which people will endure abuse and misery. Thus, I read a quote like the one above and I have to wonder what Goethe meant, and what my friend thought when he shared it with the world.

What is love? A manipulative device? A mirage? Or something tangible and worth the quest into which many have turned their lives?