Love In the Time of Gibran and Humans of New York.

A few weeks ago, a dear friend of mine typed to me saying, “So, Hash, I started reading Khalil Gibran’s _The Beloved_ and I take back my previous comments on love. Now I’m just lost.”
The previous comments about love my friend would give are very smart speculations and concerns. As for me, for quite a while now, I have become a skeptic that such a thing even exists.
Since the book made her lost, I thought that perhaps instead of being an all together skeptic, I’d be a lost person in between the spheres of “love exists” and “no, it doesn’t.”
In two hours, I was drawn into Gibran Khalil Gibran’s works and thrown back into reality, with my eyelids barely open to turn off my bedside lamp.
The next morning, as I was preparing to go to my university, I couldn’t help but wonder how Gibran’s wrote about love with such wisdom and faith. It wasn’t anything like fairytales or Hollywood movies. It was more of a Shakesperean love.
But the wisdom…in such young love. I mean, how old could he have been? He died when he was 48.
As I took my usual walk, I thought back to the “Notes” section before the reader is introduced to the short stories, prose and poems. There was mention of his lovers, and there was mention of the fact that he never married. That made me wonder if he ever found the love he so passionately wrote about…or was he in search for it all that time?
The other day, I came across a post on the “Humans of New York” page of a man in a suit with a square-printed navy tie on his button-down shirt. He was saying how few people ever meet “the One.” Perhaps, “the One” was the person that embodied the young yet “wisdomly” love I thought Gibran to have portrayed in his writing and never found.


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