Why does love almost always precede it, preside over it, and drive it forward?
What is war, after all, but a stupid, childish argument scaled up and lethalized?
Suppose a war is fought over a stretch of land—over water rights, for instance.
We live on a planet with a near-limitless supply of water, yet we bleed and slaughter over who gets to divert a single stream to water their crops.
It is the exact equivalent of two toddlers tearing each other apart over a plastic toy—a toy that, unless destroyed in the struggle, will outlast both of their fleeting interests.
It is driven by the twisted love of power and possession.
If I own the water rights, I hold the authority. I hold the power to give life or deny it.
And then consider the duration of the war itself, kept burning by different kinds of devotion.
Some men simply love the slaughter—the bloodlust and the noise.
Others fight out of a fierce, desperate love for their families, knowing that if a tyrant seizes the well, their children will starve.
Meanwhile, the man who manufactures the weapons loves the war for a far cleaner, colder reason: it is exceptionally good for profit.
War is not the absence of love. War is the ultimate product of a twisted, mutated love.