This isn't going to be one of those academically-oriented posts that Calliopia finds so boring; I ought to warn you that it also probably won't contain sage words and profound insights into the fundamental truths of life. No, sirree. This is just another post about a topic that has been discussed almost to death : love.
See, what I don't get about this whole concept of love (not the divine kind - although I have a few questions on that too, for another time)is how it's supposed to be the definition of perfect bliss and excruciating pain all at the same time, and how, despite it's seemingly ambiguous, arbitrary and completely fickle nature, so many of us seem to be addicted to it. Is it love, or is it the idea of being in love that has us hooked? No profound observations yet - I did warn you.
In spite of countless attempts, for centuries nobody has ever been able to define love; at best there have been some very good descriptions of the nature of, the effects of, the characteristics of love. For my part, I would like to add that Love is a very wet thing. And by wet, I specifically mean the kind of wetness that emits from the eyes...tears, some call it. Hah, and you thought I was talking about the other kind.
Anyway, not to meander too long from what prompted this post in the first place. In short, I received a call from a girl friend of mine, a very tearful call, in fact, this evening. We all know the story - her guy, with whom she'd been involved in this extremely hopeless love-triangle, did the unthinkable (actually, not so unexpected, considering his complete inability to commit to either of the women involved), and got the other woman pregnant. She ranted, raved, raged, and threatened to commit some act of violence involving hammers, pistols, and other assorted weapons. However, once she ran out of really graphic (and painful) descriptions of what she would do to him, what remained was that elusive emotion called love. She wanted to hate him, but it didn't work. Well, maybe the hate will come later, but right now, she's making excuses for him. She knows what she's doing, and she still can't help doing it because this thing is bigger than her.
So, what is it about us that we jump into situations and stay there, fully aware of the potentials of getting hurt - again? Are we suckers for pain? Is it some masochistic impulse that keeps us going back for more? Should we run as fast as our bare feet can carry us the moment we are threatened with this thing? Are we simply kidding ourselves when we chalk down a failed relationship as "a mistake" and then look toward the horizon, to that new person we've just met, and think "maybe this is The One"?
I don't know. I have no answers. But I like to think that this refusal to learn our lessons, to 'wisen up', is, in fact, courage of the most heroic order. To risk ourselves getting hurt again and again, to refuse to lose hope.... maybe that is just another evidence of the indomitable spirit of mankind. And maybe the small victories make up for the huge losses. Or maybe the losses are, after all, in the end, victories.
PS: I'm sorry Miss Calliopia, I can't seem to find out how to make my fonts smaller...been out of touch for that long!
