I will not confess that I am some hopeless addict to (romantic) love, nor one who desperately craves for it. Not to say I am void of love, of course, but that my writing more on it doesn’t have to mean I have some emotional despair. But I know love is more the emotional need than anything else. How else to explain all the pop songs (~80% I reckon?) going on about lost, unattainable love? The movies and books all rant about it. If you haven’t realised it probably is as good a genre as horror or action. Maybe better. Because it’s something queer pulling at everyone.
The version of love we know devours, eats away, when we are made to accept love in the brutally realistic manner it approaches us outside popular culture. It looks like this:
- It is unsustainable on just a ‘diet’ of intimacy. In marriage is love realised, but with the cost of commitment.
- It opens us up to lashings and bruisings that come from the actions and words of that imperfect person you love.
- It is put to the harshest of the most bitter winds of life that blow us towards disease, death, and disaster.
- It is possibly lured away, or diminished, when the excitement of love dies down.
Surely many are known to this. Yet it comes as a biting shock when it materialises into this form we did not see coming (or did not think would come to us).
Why then, Man, dost thou search for this queer fantasy thou callest love?
I searched deep within, but know not;
my entire being inclineth toward that elusive yearning;
yet when I found it, knew not what I doth haveth;
hence, knew not what to do.
Oh Man, surely you are to blame;
for you have flirted with love,
lured her to your bedside, promising
a life of bliss and devotion; but when
thou hast found her stripp’d
bare of her ornaments, and did
frolick a number or so, thou
stood appall’d, shak’n, disbelief’d.
Forgive me! I knoweth my darkness,
Oh, my wretched desires that do
Match not my inabilities, to look after
And guard thereafter, this brittle Love.
But thou couldst blame me no more, for
Mother Nature had played a cruel trick
Raising her Sceptre of Sickness in her left hand
And her Daggers of Death in her right,
Did chance us harsh winters, long periods
Of bleakness, that wore my precious Love thin.
If only you were to hear your cry! O, Man,
How foolish thou art! If thou wouldst see for thyself
How foolish thou art! They do pronounce,
“Temet nosces”, yet thou saw not beyond
Present fortunes and happiness
Knew not thy weaknesses in the times of dark;
Brazenly still took thee the coveted diamond
From its place on the altar, and spoke the words
To seal this Love forever.