I don't know what the hell happened here, to be honest, I was just procrastinating, not doing what I was supposed to be doing, and then I started looking for images for a story I've been planning, and then poof, there's a lot of hearts on my computer screen, and then poof, I get inspiration. I particularly think it might sound confusing, and I don't even know how the drabble below came to be, I wanted to participate in the Veritas challenge, but I was going to try and write something about Nico, but this is what came out.
It's kind of like a look into Aphrodite's better side. Because I like her. She's really bitchy, but if there's one thing she really believes in is true love, and I just find that absolutely adoring.
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"Once someone touches your heart, the fingerprints will last forever."
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Love.
That mischievous little thing that controls our whole lives. That crazy feeling that makes you giddy, and makes you grin to the walls in front of you just because he's there. That same despicable sensation that slaps you across the face and kicks you in the gut when you see her with another. That warm glow that's etched upon your face every time your children do something sweet. That nostalgia that invades your chest whenever that someone is not around.
Love.
Love is… Unexplainable. Unfathomable. Unpredictable.
Love.
Parent love, friendship love, childhood love, innocent love, obsessive love, old love, new love, unrequited love, unhealthy love, forbidden love… Crazy passionate head-over-heels love…
Love, simply.
They say that not even she can control it. And deep inside her heart, she admits it. She has twisted and turned and bent it to her own desires many, many times during history, but she could never truly tame it. They call her its mistress, but if she were to be completely honest with herself, it was the other way around.
Many things she had been in her thousands of years of existence. Selfish. Childish. Proud. Vain.
But never once she had lacked love. For love is who she is. And love, like her, is flawed. Love is jealous, and love is foolish, and love is tainted. But love, like her, is beautiful, in all its imperfection.
Her love has left many marks upon men during the centuries, some of those you might still hear about. People still write songs, and poems, and books about them. But what they never managed to accurately transmit in their works, is that however great her scars in the world had been, she was the one who ended up marked in the end.
For she had created all the great love stories there were, and every great love story has left an imprint on her. Her fingerprints are made of the tons of others that left their marks upon her. Upon love.
For she was love.