Word piece turned into contemplative rambling. On love.
The what-is-now overshadows any what-could-have-been-us or what-we-were-on-track-fors, ‘cus unfortunately what we became is a step above strangers. But if I could bend time and space I’d slow light down enough to be able to glue the eventual happy ending to our story to the point in the time-space continuum in which we first learned of each other.
I think that’s what love is said to feel like: an ouroboros of an all-consuming human flaw or perfection—I haven’t decided which yet. Although I guess the more beautifully poetic description of love would be the regeneration of the phoenix from flames of passion—that is, more beautiful in comparison to a self-cannibalizing serpent. But a phoenix. The beauty is in its fervent, perpetual resurrection; disregard for any concept of time; and truly all-consuming fire, spirit, and youth.
But nay, love is not like a phoenix. Firstly, love is subject to the trials of time. Our love could be forever, but forever is simply the span of time from this moment up until either your final breath or mine—which ever happens second. Secondly, the brightness of love’s fire is directly related to chance for rekindling—that is, once the flames dim to obscurity, rejuvenation might as well be 81.9 gigaparsecs away. Finally once nitrogen completely smothers love’s fire, not much more can be done logically, efficiently, or cost-effectively but to buy a new candle. Lastly, love is subject to our human flaws, which are subject to certain degeneration. And our biggest flaw is that we have not an unlimited source of life. To say “I love you” now could clandestinely mean “I fear I may die in the morrow in this cold, phlegmatic world against our natural propensity to want to be submerged in our emotions best when shared by another human being, so please accept me accepting you.” Meanwhile, that fiery, immortal chicken of a phoenix would scoff at the vulnerabilities begotten by love. After all, what other thing can bring about the anguish caused by a lost love, or a love lost? And to live forever in despair is just. No.
So we’re back to the ouroboros, wherein—for the sake of the analogy—the beginning of our story devours all possibilities of the now-us being what-could-have-been-us till we are left with nothing but simply “us.” In this case, we may be strangers now but as long as we hold on to the remnants of us’s beginning, our what-we-were-on-track-for, we’ll one day realize that we can be so consumed with each other that we won’t even worry about the what-we-may-be. Simpler said: if we live out our destiny unhindered by our regrets and hesitations, we. will. simply. Be.
But our love can only be likened unto an ouroboros if I could bend time and space. Alas, I can’t so we’re back to being a step above strangers. Can you love a stranger? All relationships are based on our weakness to be able to love another in a way illogically irrational. To admit compromise is to admit imperfection, and why should we settle for less. I guess in this cold, phlegmatic, big world it would be rational to settle, lest living the rest of a short life barren and impotent.
That or lower our standards of perfection. Or have no standards at all. and just. live. as is. Live what-is-now. Then perhaps love can be likened to bacteria. Simple yet complex enough to survive and thrive in this hot, cold, big world.
‘Cus this could all be so simple if we don’t rather make it hard. I’ll lay down my sword, you retract your shield and yield to…
el fin.
