Love

Love is a curse. I took over two years getting over a particular insanity, a syndrome labelled “Love”, in one case: thinking about her a great deal, the thoughts having a great emotional weight. Evolution can be so cruel: it is necessary, in order to bond people to bring up a child successfully, and yet perhaps most Love is a pain and not a blessing, unrequited or better not acted upon, as when the lover is married to another.

I have rarely attracted a partner, but the women who show some interest tend to be at my intellectual level, and therefore have made more of their lives than I have.
Oh bugga.
Yes, it matters. Of course it matters.

And to be mature enough to balance pros and cons and-

Then I thought- it could be a first line, with a lovely rhythm, but I have come up with no more for it-

How could I claim to love you, and ever wish you pain?

I care. There is something sweet in that.

Then I read this, by John O’Donoghue: The eye, when it opens, is like the dawn breaking in the night. When it opens a new world is there. … Love is the light in which we see each thing in its true origin, nature, and destiny. If we could look at the world in a loving way, then the world would rise up before us full of invitation, possibility and depth.

It is for me to deal with my feelings. I offer a gift, but it may not be wanted. I have not wronged anyone, and while I have been a fool I have rarely appeared one. I have texted when depressed, but not when drunk. I can deal with my feelings by withdrawing: with that woman, I saw her again several times and never without weeping. (Mmm, maybe I did look a bit like a fool.)

How could these Loves relate?

Well, I see beauty in the desired one, and am sure it is there. I can set a woman on a pedestal for worship yet I am keen to know her, and I see real, good qualities. True origin, nature and destiny– human beings are beautiful. If desire is to gain something for myself, some sensation, some relief, this Love as it becomes hopeless might become appreciation. I see beauty in the Other, and unselfish delight in that becomes some small sop for my misery. The sadness and sense of loss at what I have never had is so intense!

And- this is intellectual acceptance rather than heart-realisation- possibly much of my pain comes from my resisting my feelings. I should not be suffering like this. I must not embarrass myself. I hurt, and I must recover! Let it be- sometimes one may influence events, sometimes one may just see how they turn out. Such phlegmatic acceptance does not come easily to me.

Beatrice_Addressing_Dante

4 thoughts on “Love

    • We have many words for it- crush, pash, infatuation, obsession- yet the distinction seems to be in what happens rather than what one feels. It may be a curse in that it makes it more difficult to relate to the beloved. After one conversation in 1987 I was obsessed for six months, and wrote this:

      He fancies himself in Love, when in truth it is infatuation
      not with a face, but a remembering
      not with a mind but with a picture
      drawn by wish on the blank canvas of ignorance
      not with a woman, but with Woman
      or the fulfilment of a need
      Oh when I see, what do I see,
      another, or a part of me?

      I think I saw something of her, some energy, force of personality, and I could not sleep all week.

      It gets easier. I should delight in what is rather than grasp at what will not be. In the last episode of Les Revenants, a gendarme walks with a woman. They stop, she touches his cheek, and he trembles- feelings overwhelmed, actions completely controlled. Then she walks away.

      Liked by 2 people

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