Space is a most peculiar place.  Mostly because a lot of it is just that—space:  A whole lot of not-a-lot.  Granted, it is far more than just nothing, for any fool could glance up on a clear night and tell that there's quite a bit going on up there.  But the problem with it being, “up there” is that we can't really get to it just yet, despite the fact that we'd really, really like to.  
We'd like to learn a lot about how little of not-a-lot of activity is actually happening in the eerily quiet universe, but so far everywhere we've gone it appears we've been the only ones who've gone there.  This proves one of two things: either we really ARE the only ones looking out into space thinking, “So where're the others?” (which unfortunately may prove us to be absolute lunatics) or that if there are other chaps out there, they really don't seem too concerned with meeting their neighbors.
Regardless of whether or not there is a lot going on in the not-a-lot around us, there is certainly a lot going on in the tiny little dot we've got called, 'earth'.  At first glance one might say it's a whole lot of nothing, and at second glance—if one is rather intuitive—one might say the exact same thing.  Yet on a third glance—if one is a rare form of intuitive—one might say it appears as though we are doing an awful lot of searching.  
Like a tumultuous yet well-oiled machine hurtling through the galaxy on a relatively small rock at disconcerting speeds, the human race is seemingly trapped in a perpetual scramble to find something.  The only problem is that we're not really sure what exactly it is we're looking for.  That's not to say we're completely clueless; this thing does have a name, and a select few of us have had glimpses of it from time to time.  It is not so much the question of, 'what' this thing is as it is the elusive content which makes up the very nature of this thing.  We haven't got much of a clue as to how to find or create it, and yet the moment we come across it, we recognize it.  We know it.  It feels oddly familiar and perfect, and somehow we know in the deepest recesses of our search-weary souls that it is exactly what we need.  Even if it lasts no more than a few seconds, that recognition and experience is enough.  
We are hooked.  Mesmerized.  Breathless.  Addicted.
Our entire being screams at us that, “That” was what we've been looking for, and that it's all we need, and we need to spend the rest of our lives dedicated to finding that.  
And so we do.  We stretch and strain and scramble and scream and shoot and shout and sip and slop and slap and scribble and serenade and sniffle and sing our hearts to shreds as we desperately seek out the fleeting feeling so many have come to know as, “love”.
We are destitute.  We are distraught.  We are banking our entire existence on finding that which we know little to nothing about.  We have paradoxically fallen in love with the pursuit of love.  Some of us **** for it.  Some steal for it.  Some give all they own for it.  Others think to have found it, and proclaim so to the rest of us in hopes that some will agree and validate their ridiculous theories.  Some find it in others.  Some find it in money.  Some find it in themselves.  
Four letters, and an unfathomable cavalcade of implications.  We see others experiencing it.  We remember the times we've felt it.  We long for times to feel it again.  We believe in it.  We wish it was alive and searching for us as hard as we are.  He is.