Recently, someone asked me, “Why do you write about love so much?” 

I responded, “Why are you alive?” 

They looked at me like I had seven heads, but even if I had three days, I couldn’t pick a better response. Chew on that for a while, I thought. There’s plenty of meat there for you. Enough to keep you fed for a week. Maybe a lifetime, I can only hope.

You want me to spell it out for you? Love is primal. It’s part of your DNA. Maybe you don’t realize it or don’t like to talk about it, but that’s your hangup, not mine. Never mind my stuff. Next time you read or watch anything, look for love—it’s drenched in whatever you’re enjoying. If not love, then survival, and unity. I can almost guarantee whatever you’re reading or watching right now relies on some version of one of those master themes. That’s what I call them: master themes. 

Why are they master themes? They’re primal, and they relate the core of your existence; therefore, when done well, they hit you harder than a big hammer. The biggest hammers possible—sledgehammers, I guess. Maybe jackhammers, ferocious and relentless, chipping away at that thick skin. Eventually they reach your heart, and when done well, they leave you changed forever. Did you already forget what we’re talking about? Master themes, three of them—love, survival, and unity. Mostly love, though.

I don’t know what you love, but I know you need to. Charles Bukowski said it best: “Find what you love and let it kill you.” I think “who” and “where” will suffice also. That’s the trifecta. Your best shot, I think. What I wish most often for people I love is that they find something they care about more than money. Eh, yeah I went there. But people do way too much for money. They’re whores to the dollar. Sell their souls, eat their children, and screw their friends for a bigger slice of the pie. I feel bad for these people. No love in their heart. Colder than a bucket of ice. They’re the villains of my dreams, and some days I feel like they’re everywhere.

I saw a girl wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt the other day. I asked her, “Stones fan, huh?” 

“What?” 

I pointed at the emblem on her breast, and she gave me that seven-heads look. Not again, I thought. I had to tell her who they were. Fine, but it made me wonder how much love was inside her chest. Or whether it was all for show. Just the thought of it broke my heart.

*This article is part of the ongoing Morning After series: short, reflective pieces on thoughts, feelings, and ideas about life. They’re kind of like well-manicured journal entries, written the morning after a night out.