In this edition, The Big Debate has been replaced by The Big Collaboration; a collection of editors’ opinions on what love is.
what else is out there?:
The stars and the moon live in harmony
In ways such as you and i
Its as if you are my moon
Each night i look towards the sky
Focusing on you and you only
Telling the moon about my day
The moon’s my comfort
The only one i can confide in
And tell my hopes and dreams
See i’m just a small star
Desperately in love with the image of the moon
You can hardly see me
So tiny and far too distant
You’re looking beyond me
Up into the vast sky
Wondering what else is out there
If only you knew
It’s as if every atom of my body gravitates towards you. I want to see your scars, memorize the shape of your tongue, and climb the curve of your lower back. I want to chart the topography of your anatomy and be fluent in your body language. I want you; painfully so.
The way that you look at me is paralyzing
I drown in my thoughts when you are around
Are you looking at my outfit?
Or tracing the shape of my body with your eyes?
Were you too drunk to function?
Or did you intentionally slide your hand down my inner thigh?
Do I mean more to you than the others?
Or do we have a friendship
That i’m looking too far into?
Film and TV Editor
I am, at my core, terrible at romance, so when I told my partner that I love the concept of love, we both laughed at the cringe-worthy irony in my statement. It is true though – I love the feeling of love. It spans far beyond the romantic sense, beyond the commercialised love of valentines day. I love overpriced coffee, finding a really good book, when my favourite song comes on in a bar, the laughter of my housemates. I love the sound of the sea, stroking cute dogs, drinking cider on hot summer evenings, and freshly washed sheets. The world opens up when you realise that you can find love beyond the cliche, that even the most mundane days can contain beauty.
Features Print Editor
Sometimes, when it’s dark outside, I look to the sky and wonder if you’re looking back. You never knew us on this earth, but so strangely we know you, even more strangely we are you. You have a son, he is a strong man with thick black hair and a kind heart. Two grandchildren too, one with eyes like the earth and other with eyes like the sky. We think of you so often, each in our own ways. I put a feather in my hair and walk into places I know they tried to keep us out of; but I still feel like you made me the richest person on earth. And then, sometimes, when it feels dark inside, I look in the mirror and see you looking back.
Arts Print Editor
Love is not pretty
It does not come wrapped in a bow
Or cushioned by red rose petals.
There is a reason Cupid carries a bow and arrow
Weaponising love in its omnipotent form.
It is love that causes the greatest pleasure
And the greatest pain.
For his love, Orpheus took to the underworld
Dying for a life lived without his love.
Love is imbued with death and pain
Yet we continue.
We often see love as maddening
This overpowering feeling
Like an unitchable scratch
Constant, annoying almost.
Yet we continue
Finding little moments of love in these people we meet
In novels, in songs, in faces
Little relics of emotion that we grasp onto and never let go
Each one of you, I carry like a priceless trinket
Collecting, in case I need you, in case you need me
Love is not pretty, but we need it.
Science and Technology Editor
Paris and Helen. King Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson. Romeo and Juliet. Why “and”? History has taught us of the binary nature of human love. Literature has conditioned us to the requirement of a paired-entity entry-ticket. Love and the objective case have become a relationship by their very own attachment. It is sad that the reflexive treads carefully on the outskirts – never knowing whether it will step into the red light. Always him, her, them. Why not himself, herself, themselves or, indeed, myself? The biopsychology of love is complex. Much research has gone into our affectionate view of others – yet very little is understood about that same view of ourselves. Indeed, the latter arguably does not even fit the commonly accepted definition of ‘human love’. Perhaps, then, on one occasion you might dare to look inwards, dear reader. You may just find it surprising, rewarding and loving. Being alone, after all, is not always being lonely.
It makes the days warmer, where coffee tastes infinitely good and food even better. Where strangers make you smile and the clouds in the sky make you giggle like you did when you were a small child. It fills colourless spaces with hues of colour, ousting the bleakness and makes the monotony admirable. It has a way of growing, merely a seed you don’t even know is there, or even a small sapling, that blooms into a flower that tangles itself into the days and tangible moments. It has the great ability to capture us completely and shape our ways of thinking and viewing the world.
It is a feeling we receive with open arms, we seek it, crave it, demand it, like clean air to fill our lungs. A feeling that we are so happy to have and so afraid to lose.
and they call it, Love.
When asked what I think about love, the word that immediately strikes me is connection. Love is the feeling of flow – stemming from internal tranquillity and the attachment to the oneness that transcends our physicality. Love is the connection that binds us all. It’s the feeling of unity, it’s being someone who is part of a wider energy and trusting that where you put that energy it will be received and reciprocated. It is the purest form of human emotion, that sits at our very core; the sense of Euphoria and the fear of vulnerability all wrapped up into one.
One late summer evening, I was driving back home listening to John Mayer’s ‘Edge of Desire’ on repeat. I found solace in his song which described intense yearning and before I knew it, a steady stream of tears trickled down my cheeks forcing me to pull over as my eyesight got blurry. The dull ache in my heart quickly turned into searing pain and it was then that I learnt heartbreak was obliterating.
At the time, I had just bid someone I loved goodbye and all I did was reminisce in despair. Someone wiser than I told me however, that my sorrow stemmed from love, for only if I loved and shared something beautiful would losing it hurt. In no form is love facile but at its purest, loving another and being loved is a privilege. It energises us and despite setbacks, love is a drug we cannot get enough of.
Sports Print Editor
“Bunch of old w***” – Daisy Steiner
Features Online Editor
Searching or Falling?
I don’t want that kind of love.
When you can’t decide if you’re in love or in lust,
when you don’t want love, you just want to be loved.
That isn’t the love that Shakespeare spent 154 sonnets talking about,
nor is it the love that Austen bestowed to Marianne in her love-sickness.
When there is no mystery, and you have been looking for that flame
for so long you scrape the rocks together, hoping to ignite a spark or two.
I don’t want that kind of love, I want it when the flame burns long after the night ends.
Love that you’re not seeking, that catches you in manacles that you never see locking.
When absence beckons you to grow fonder, but fonder just turns into torture when you’re apart.
Where love is certain, so irrevocable, it hurts to return to yourself, and now a part of you that belongs to someone else.
Now you finally understand what Louis de Bernières meant by love as a temporary madness.
Comment Print Editor
Romantic love isn’t about flowers, valentines, or a constant feeling of ecstasy.
Love is the coffee to my early starts; the liquor that sustains my day.
It is the slow burn of a candle, continuingly flickering, at times brighter than others.
It is the buzz of a pub on a Friday night, but simultaneously the quiet of a café with my favourite book.
It paints the surface of the Earth in warm yellow sunshine, and whether romantic or platonic, it certainly is all around.