This semester has taken me on a journey through worn pages of Ovid, a literature hungry for a love bursting at the seams; a devoted love in need of protection. Love, as I have discovered (and continue to discover) is not a feeling of fearlessness, selfishness or rationality like that of when you reach the top of a mountain. Rather, love is like climbing to the top of the mountain and deciding if reaching the top is worth the hike. Love is the afterwards, and climbing down the mountain. Love is what is left over after the madness, after the butterflies and the challenges fade away. As I write this I realize that this is the love I have justified. This is my own love; a love that I will define, and continue to define through my interpretations of English literature. No one else can unconditionally define love as I have. Thus, love is as unique as each individual. Greek Mythology has taught me love cannot be universally defined, rather interpreted and carried out through friendship, courtship and stewardship (although not always justified or consensual as depicted in Ovid).
"...[the] worn pages of Ovid, a literature hungry for a love bursting at the seams..." Nicely phrased.
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