What is love? I doubt that anyone knows this. Every living being perceives this concept subjectively. I can’t say what love is, but I can explain what I feel underneath it. Perhaps it is love for the mother and the desire to make her live longer; this is love for the guy and the desire to see him more often. But I write about desires, and this is selfishness, not love. Love is a sacrifice. The object of your adoration should be happy, even at the cost of your grief. But is this happiness for you? Love is not the same as happiness. Often love is a tragedy. And anyone who has not experienced such a tragedy can hardly say that they have experienced love. However, after the tragedy, no one else can experience anything like this. The heart becomes callous and cannot feel, because when the place is filled, nothing new can arise in it. The main thing is to feel it at least once, otherwise you cannot say that you have lived. Published in the author's edition, preserving the author's spelling and punctuation.