What is the chemical formula for 'love'? Misty late autumn mornings or misty early spring mornings?

(Two questions at once due to logistical problems, wish me luck).

I am no chemist, and certainly no biochemist, and absolutely no amorobiochemist. But I guess you could call me an enthusiastic amateur.

And I have no realistic answer to that question. Which is possibly why I’m blending with with another. I think there’s relevance there. The two chemically bond and fuse together for a while and show us that some things are the same even as they are different.

Spring is about hope and autumn is about nostalgia. Maybe. That’s not all they are, but they’re appropriate symbols.

Right now, the onset of spring (complete with mist) is the most exciting thing going. I can’t believe how much I feel I need this summer to start firing up, and it’s making every day that feels like spring pour magic and happiness into my life.

Autumn, I also love. After all that energy and excitement, all that sunshine and brilliance, you start to draw back in. Wrapping yourself up in cosy memories of the summer just gone, you draw in and get fat for the winter.

And it’s not so cold in the autumn, yet.

This year I’ve felt the change of the seasons more violently than normal. I think my winter has been harder than normal. At least inside.

But part of that has been too much love-hope. Something in my chemicals is pushing me to jump upon every misty-eyed spring doe and assume it’s the summertime come early.

That sounded so much creepier than I intended. My heart leaps, not me. I don’t kill deer. Not even for love.

So the problem becomes that love IS something chemical, and so is brains. My brain has got better at convincing itself that those chemicals are in place. Or maybe I just want it so much that everything starts to fill that formula.

It’s hope again. Hope for the summercome. Hope for the lovecome. Hope brings things into being before they are there. This is dangerous, but much less so with the seasons, where one swallow does not make a summer, but it is generally a good indicator that something is changing.

I don’t love in seasons. There is nothing predictable about passions. There are no external indicators. My heart doesn’t have a solstice. And, like I say, I’m no chemist, so I don’t keep accurate trend maps, so I can’t even look for deeper patterns.

I love a crisp misty morn. It doesn’t entirely matter which. But both help me believe different lies.

In spring, the summer will come and make everything better. In autumn, the winter will be cosy and fiery and happy.

But things aren’t what you expect. Not ever.

And that’s the thing with love too. It doesn’t crop up how you expect, and it doesn’t work out how you want.

But if you learn to deal with the mistiness, to just stride on and breathe in the atmosphere.

Maybe it’ll explode prettily.

I hope.

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Illustration by Jaime.

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