ESSENCE
ESSENCE
We come into this world alone. And alone, we will leave it.
In between, we meet people — family, friends, lovers, pain.
We call them companions, but truthfully, they’re just passersby disguised as permanence.
Everything is temporary, even the smiles that promise forever.
Yet even in the briefest encounters… love was there.
Confused, crooked, clumsy — but still love.
Even when it showed up dressed as fear, silence, or abandonment — it was still love.
The tragedy is: no one taught us how to shape it.
No one took our hands and said, “This is how you care for something so raw.”
Love is the essence of creation.
It’s the cry before the first breath, the invisible that formed the visible.
It is the Big Bang of what we are — matter born from the immaterial.
It is something no definition captures, yet any heart can feel.
Love is easy to feel… but to understand? To name? To direct?
That’s where everything falls apart.
What’s the point in feeling it, if you don’t recognize it?
What’s the use of wanting it, if all you can give in return is harm?
What good is it to be filled with something that overflows and drowns you at the same time?
Love is like clay.
If you know how to mold it with patience and care,
you can shape a living sculpture in your hands.
But if you treat it like a formless lump, carelessly,
you just get messy… and in the end, you create nothing.
Worse still, you start blaming the clay for not becoming art.
As if it was the clay that failed — and not the hands that shaped it.
But who taught us how to touch like that?
Who gave us the right gestures?
We learn by watching — parents, uncles, grandparents, neighbors, classmates.
We love the way we saw love treated.
And when what we saw was neglect, absence, shouting, and slammed doors…
that’s what we repeat. Not knowing any better, we just echo it.
A child loves clay for what it is.
She doesn’t need it to be a vase or a plate — she senses its worth even in its unformed state.
But for clay to become ceramic,
you need more than desire: you need knowledge, context, and sensitivity.
You need to know how much pressure to apply, so it doesn’t crack what you want to preserve.
Love needs context.
Without it, it becomes a runaway engine — powerful, but destructive.
Plug a generator where it doesn’t belong,
and you’ll cause a blackout.
Place love where it doesn’t fit…
and it turns into ruin.