This is as empirical a fact as is the apple hitting Sir Isaac Newton on the head. Factually, scientifically, Love exists. You've felt it crackle through the atoms of your body like you've felt the jolt of electricity when you touched a doorknob. And facts, as they say, are facts.
Atoms ache. Matter moans. Particles wince in pain.
Love exists, but she is blind. Love needs a Story.
Some call the Story fantasy or fiction. It's all make believe, a fairy tale, because the Story of Love can't be observed in the test tubes or under the microscopes.
Love, some claim, needs no Story. Love can figure it out on her own. Let Love work her way through the School of Hard Knocks. Let pain teach Love her lessons. Let suffering be her syllabus.
And so, Love ventures forth.
And we find her, years later, stumbling through the alleyway looking for her fix. Or staring blankly at a computer screen. One screen followed by another.
She found pleasure, Love did. And even ecstasy, in some moments. But the feelings have faded. The Ache is still throbbing, but distant now and numb.
Blind Love, lost Love, stumbles around as pleasure and desire.
Love needs her Story.
And there are some of us who say that the Story is no fairy tale, no fantasy or fiction.
The Story is True. As True as an electron. As True as a green bean. As True as Love herself.
Love with her Story? She grows like a garden. Like roses under sunshine and rain. Like cells in a petri dish. Like chemicals fizzing in the tube.
The Story traces the highways and byways though the cosmic swirl, knows the nooks and crannies in E = mc2 where Love can be sheltered, nurtured and shared. As scientifically as the trails of the particles through their cloud chambers. Or the blaze of lightning seeking the ground. Or the river creeping to the sea.
There is a Story that knows where Love will flourish. And where she might find shelter from the storm.
And watching Love bloom you know that Story is True. As true as a toad. As factual as a fractal.
There is a Story guiding Love to Love.
I don't believe in it.
Just as I don't believe in gravity or turnips or the swaying of flowers in the breeze.
I observe them all.
Factually. Empirically. Scientifically.