I can't sleep and was being all contemplative

I hate that there are things in life which cannot be quantified, measured, or even described: abstract phenomena occurring every day to every one but which possess no central qualification, no exact definition. Water can be quantified. Air can be measured. A chair can be described. Love, however, provides humanity no such luxury. How do we know if we love someone? If we think we love someone and we believe we love someone, does it make it so? When you say “I love you” how do you know if you are telling the truth? It is easy to know if you’re lying and you say it, but what if you believe you love someone but have no proof? I used to say, “I love you” to a boy I thought I loved, and, for all I know, may have actually loved. Either way, I awoke one winter morning, sat straight up in my bed, and knew, with great certainty that I did not love him any longer, that is if I ever really did. The suddenness of the change threw me, how can something so seemingly powerful—albeit intangible—be so inconsistent? If I could fall out of love so quickly, was I ever in love in the first place? Did I persuade myself into thinking I was in love and when my self-made delusion ended so did my pseudo-love for him? Or maybe I really loved him. Maybe my whole heart and self did love him—how is one supposed to know, especially when it ends. If it ends at all does it mean that it wasn’t really the love which you once thought? If you don’t really know what love is, and you don’t know if it was, how can you know when it is again? If you can’t define something, how can it be real? I would like to think I am in love, but there is a part of me that is unsure. There is a part of me holding back; reserving some of what I feel is my love for fear that if I give it away and the “love” ends, I won’t be able to get it back, and thusly shouldn’t have given it in the first place because if it ended, it wasn’t love…or was it? And did it end because I couldn’t spare the last corner of my heart for fear it wasn’t the love I thought it might be? Things which cannot be quantified, calculated, measured, described, or defined should not be allowed to exist; they quite simply make my quite simple life rather complicated.