Mycroft holmes is no. 1

I now know I was wrong.

It is not that love doesn’t exist on this swirling turning planet of seven billion people and counting. It’s that it doesn’t mean anything. Seven billion people. Why should it matter if one person loves another? Why is it exciting if they love them back?

This globe we live in is one mass-produced mess. Your trainers are unique if only twenty other people wear them. That book that changed your life sits on hundreds, thousands of book shelves and is read all day every day. That song you heard that one time when you needed it has two million views on youtube, it’s a private joke between a group of people in China, it’s the first song a kid in America ever learned to play on guitar. Everything is everywhere; nothing is unique and nothing is special. So, why would love by any different? There were around 350 million people on earth in the fifteenth-century, so it was probably pretty bloody exciting when someone fell in love. It was probably the only person in the village who it had actually happened to. It was probably noteworthy. Now? There’s too much. Love has become another mass-produced amenity. You want water, you want food, you want clothes, shelter, love. You expect romance. You expect rain and late night kisses.

Love is synthetic.

Your best mate is in love with a girl, and she loves him back, and that’s pretty special but it’s also happened two doors down from you, and in the creepy house opposite, and in fact it seems like everyone’s in love. So, you are too.

You love a boy and that’s fantastic, you’re soaring, but he doesn’t love you back and “actually mate, you aren’t the only one”, and declarations are being thrown down, tossed around, and love is disposable. Throw out your water bottle, trade in the telly. Toss love around like it’s nothing.