How many times have we chanced upon this vile, terribly irresistible thing called love? And how many times have we fallen for it?
It’s insatiable. It stops when it decides to stop. We seem to have no power over it, and we’re incapable of comprehending its ability to permeate every fabric of our being once smitten by the object it so chooses to manifest itself in.
See, that is the grand illusion—the grand allure—of this false promise. Or false prophet. We have this innate tendency of associating its existence with a being outside of us. This is a pre-programmed human fault. Still, bearing this race-old wisdom, we disregard all principles to blindly and powerlessly seek its paltry reward.
Fact checkpoint: while you’re reading this, you already have a name or a face that goes with the thought of love.
We write stories about it. We sing songs about it—some few melodies of maladies, or the fading chants of those about to fall to their defeat as they march towards their inevitable ends.
We tell tall tales of it. We paint depictions of how we see it. We express how we feel it. We endlessly attempt to find the most fitting of words to control this outpouring of emotion and establish some operational structure into this omnipotent intangibility we worship in oblivion.
Yet, what we cannot truly fathom is its impregnable meaning—or perceived role in worldly life.
It’s like discovering the most addictive drug upon first consumption, or upon the fundamental entertainment of the thought of it. It sweetly reels you in and does not release its grip on all levels of your consciousness until it has exhausted all facets of your mind’s eye, corrupting it with the vision of a future you can only gain through it.
There is something attractive in knowing that it is going to be difficult. That it is going to be unbelievably challenging. That it is going to be a long, immeasurable, tedious endeavor. That it is going to be utterly impossible. Then, we take that leap of faith and engage in pursuing it.
Right there: impossible. Isn’t this familiar? It comes in all shapes and sizes.
We can’t love…
We shouldn’t love…
We couldn’t love…
We mustn’t love…
We fill out the rest of these statements with ease… automatically. We know it’s best to not love whoever the manifestation of it is.
But the temptation is just too damning for us to look away. All rationalization and logic get interpreted as mere excuses—giving us the self-granted right to put more excuses on top of these to justify following what the ‘heart’ commands.
Ah, yes. What a failure of an instrument. Every single faculty of intelligent design becomes fragile because of this one element of being human.
The hope that we have a chance, even the slightest, most minuscule chance, can lull us into designing, nurturing and embodying this belief that it is something that can be made possible. We cling on to this hope no matter how astutely beckoning it evolves as we traverse the path it keeps on laying ahead of us.
All alarms go off and the mind, in all its will and might, warns us not to take this frequently traveled road. But knowing that many warriors have succumbed to defeat in the many battles throughout many histories, and that many valiant suitors have eventually fallen prey to its primordial deceits, the wide expanse of chaos and the unknown manages to become the sound of paradise. It behaves like a waveguide that synchronizes with brain chemistry such that every auditory synapse becomes a compulsory calling. Love, after all, is a siren revealing to us that drowning in her turbulent sea is similar to transcending all inhibitions of happiness.
We somehow imagine that we have this key to turn the tide and win the war. That by pursuing love, Love will learn to love us back. How paradoxical.
We spend so many sleepless nights and burn so much valuable hours that could’ve been allocated for more productive acts, but we persistently lie to ourselves that this dark, old road is happiness in disguise. Eclectically ecstatic. Majestically moronic.
In the process, we also become a dichotomy. Half of the time, we love the thought of love. The other half, we hate it. We also simultaneously resist it. A virtual insanity—if you may—that it is literally able to tear our being into two halves, but have both co-exist in perfect harmony, feeding each other with hopes and dreams and reasons and calculations.
Every day we wake up being smitten by it is a day of success, retribution and confusion. Inexplicably, this limbo is, by default, fascinatingly fulfilling. This is the version of every day that would be the most contradicting. We always tell ourselves that we will stop this preposterous enterprise. At the same time, we encourage ourselves to go on.
This is all in the mind. What we overlook is that our infected mind influences our outward actions in an invariable degree. Unfortunately, it’s here to stay until Love outgrows us, and not the other way around.
Feels good to love, eh? Here, have a cup of reality to wake you up as you will most likely end this day thinking of somebody worth your love, and beginning tomorrow well-equipped to love yet again.