There's a reason love gets called all kindsa names. Love is a game of life, after all, with a biological imperative that serves itself: without at least tolerating each other, we'd likely be an endangered species by now.

What love does is ruin, not run, the world. The world entire, not our littu cosmoses and osmatic asthmatic mosaics what know no collages.

Which is why all the brouha about the world ending feels more than just a tad endothermic. We do it to ourselves. Heat ourselves up, long before we encounter others we may choose to collide with, propagating our species. Moto bin kumoto, and boom. 9 months of penance, percentiles more of suffering until our young leave the yard upon attaining the suffrage of the universe. Presuming the chickens don' come home to roost, and our nests weren't so comfortable as to have taught the chicks a failure to launch.

In protecting these external limbs whose natures we have grown so accustomed to as to wonder what would happen to them if we weren't there to give guidance, we may wilt, and wilt, and wilt...and nurture them into suckers who know little but how to drain the very life force outta everything that comes within nuclear fallout radius of their spherical influences.

Why?

Because we loved them ever so much as to have shown them that they weren't only number one, but the one thing – and one thing only – what mattered to their gods: and by God, Moms and Pops would strike all other false pretend totems outta their very expensive horizons – let alone closeted exo-very-skeletal armor – if they even once chose to look them askance. These littu monsters then watch, amused, as Moms and Pops laugh at how their Lord's love is too much ooo, and better than all other lords, so help them not blaspheme God; and fight over how their God's rules specify convenient supremacy for whosoever the apparent winner is at any given time of day.

Smitten?

You're it.

You've been had.

You will do as you were told, Bathsheba, and await your Man Solo to reign over you and the legacies of what pains it took to get him there. The lands of Sheba had no baths, you see, and the bounties of Egypt had long since taken a rain check, flowing to the West Bank where even their smallest accurate boys could bake and sing and bite those who kaa Naan; all target-practicing and comfort-living, the better to launch deadpooling-pebbles a-sling at Giants.

We did that.

No National interests did that.

Love is called a drug.

Love is called sugar. Love is called giving a fuck. Love is warm enough to have no chills about ending other loves. Yet since everything worth its weight in salt knows to seek moderation, too much love becomes an idealist stockade of potions that make poisons cower in dark corners, afraid to show their faces. It dehydrates what it once vivified. Anhydrous love, like salty peepu? Sheds insulation: it becomes insular, a live wire to the touch, electrifying to look at.

Deadly on contact. It has charted some pathways so oft, and so hard, it needs feel only warm to seek heat like a missile, and ravage it till everything of its own cold metallic exterior is lodged into everything that boiled and charred the fuck out when - inevitably - it combusted, incinerating everything fortunate enough to find itself within its explosive radius.

Incendiaries have nothing on love gone sour. We did that to ourselves. We will do it to ourselves. I bet you when the world-ending event finally gets here from outta Space and Time and all their continuums, those mohines so fortunate as to perish together will remember nothing of what mattered so much that they forgot to enjoy, more than destroy, life as we know it.

Love is only sugar because given to one man at the right time it will reboot receptors and cool down capacitors long enough to keep the ticker marching: to the other man? It may well be the difference between the kicker kicking on, and the last kicks of a diabetic horse. It is only ours because we may well be the only species that knows how to - and thus in true human fashion has learned to excel at - hating what we can't have. Ending what we can't be. Unaliving (Good God I hate that bullshit notion of a word) what has more life in its pinky than ever flowed through us as we sat tainting all we touched with our giant heads.

Si basi tuendelee kuingizwa kichwa tu? Kichwa ngumu ya jitu itapasua msamba vile ndovu inge ku tu! Forget supra-additive toxicities of drug abuse and ethics, moralities and Acts of godly judgment: love and how it interacts with our lifestyles?