What would it be like, to not ask questions? To not be curious? There is no time in my life after puberty that I can recall not being inquisitive. I don't mean questioning of the rapid-fire "daddywhyistheskyblue?" type questioning. I've always been a quieter, observe-and-research type asker of questions.
Why do birds do that?
Why do leaves turn red?
How does an eddy form in the water behind a rock?
What do people hear in the music of Kesha that makes them want to listen to it?
Why is the sky blue? (I do known the answer to that one. Now.)
Being a questioner is strongly correlated with being a thinker. And so it is with me. I am wont to think. Lately, I have been thinking a lot about love. Love always brings up questions, does it not? One question that I've been ruminating on a lot is this: Why love?
I'm sure this is a question that we can attempt to answer, we may think we have an answer, but ultimately cannot really be answered. I entertain the notion that rather than try to answer it, it is best to just live it.
Is that enough? Will that do? Tell me, for you: Why love?