China had always mused that there were a lot of different types of love. There was friendship. There was family… a platonic love. There was lust- that some people claimed to be love, but in the end it wasn't anything that measured to love. Then there was true love- he supposed he'd call it. That love that one would die for. That love for one's country, that love that one felt for a large group of people that were related or that one person that you fought for.
He supposed, in the end, he had felt it all. But that love was always so short lived. Or at least in his expanse of life it was. He had fallen in love, he had felt lust, he had raised a family. But it all came to an end at some point and he always ended up alone.
He had lived as long as the great empires, and longer. He had witnessed their increase in strength with that love for their countries. That sort of love they fell in and out of. He had fought and traded and communed with them as friends and enemies. He had seen that love create new life, and new countries. He had seen smaller countries grow and prosper under that love. Or wither away with that lack thereof. He had seen them die in their lust for power. And as always, they had left him alone.
But, he supposed, that was how it always would be.