How many times have I said “I don't believe in love?” I want
to explain further why, and what it would look and sound like if I
did.
I like stories. It helps if the characters are compelling or there
is an honesty to the infinite nuance that's spoken to. I love
stories. They allow you to live as many lives as you have the time to
empathize with. Maybe you can't be a superhero. Maybe we're not quite
to a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Maybe you'll never face the
impossible circumstances of characters you hold most dear. But you
get a chance to explore. You get to ask yourself questions and test
your ideas. You get to reflect and grow right along with something
that's sharing your head space.
I first stopped believing in love when it seemed unfairly
difficult to maintain. Maybe too many relationships where one person
loves, the other person likes, but dammed if they don't share the
language. It becomes a balancing act. One leveraging their version of
love against the other's. If you could either keep up your end of the
“bargain” or keep your other in the dark long enough, you got to
hold onto it until something worth the dramatic episode to follow was
introduced to the situation. I would ask, why does love seem so much
like a hostage crisis?
I, also first, stopped believing in love because of the infinite
amount of things that were justified in its name. Do you know why
you're willing to play the game depicted above? Because you love
them. Maybe it's your god doing all sorts of contradictory and crazy
shit because of love. Maybe insecure is simply too long of a word, so
you simply love the idea that the person you hold most dear can't
talk to or spend time with people under which you feel threatened.
And dammit! You love them so much back that you're willing to sever
ties and redefine your life indefinitely.
The further you investigate the word, the further you spiral into
the abyss. For some people it means “absolute faith” in that you
don't even eye fuck the girl you walk past on the street without some
severe consequences. For some, it's this playful notion of
togetherness. As long as they mostly inhabit your space most of the
time, why, you couldn't think of a more loving gesture. It's like
calling every color green. The most intense and painful experience or
the lightest self-assured expression between any two things all
become some expression of love.
And in its convoluted all-encompassing descriptions is where
people find their deepest clarity! Of course it's all the pain you
feel. Of course it's moments of doubt. Of course it's weathering the
storm of two personalities trying to resolve around a common center.
Of course it's the rush of emotions that keep you paralyzed yet
invigorated. Of course it's the quiet contentedness and constant hug
even when you're trying to feel your loneliest. Of course it's
wanting more for another person than you could want for yourself. Of
course it's impossible to put into mere words.
If only you could be made to realize just how Of Course! It's all
of these things; the moment you allow yourself the truth of that
fact, oh how your life gains a new and worthwhile purpose!
Call me autistic, but I don't get it. It's painful to think about.
Not because it's some hard problem with an answer. Because it's a
million roads to nowhere. It's self-congratulations. It's as easy or
as difficult as you want it to be. Therefore, I think it holds no
dignity, and only the most insidious kind of circumstantial
descriptive honesty.
I make pains to depict it like I do above and not focus on “the
brain chemicals.” I don't out of hand discount feelings or rushes
of endorphins or general good feelings from being around good people
and influences. I think if you boil love down to the very fact that
your body reacts to the outside world, you're missing all the screwy
things people actively choose to do with it.
But what if I were to believe in love? Maybe I don't want to say
it. Or if I say it, feel hopeless and like a liar. Am I to put “cold
hard [robot]-type facts and numbers” to it? Is it love after 2
years, 55 dinners, and 3 or more talks about children? Hardly.
As with the heart of most things, to me, it's in the details. If I
was going to believe in love, it would look like a promise. No, not
to someone about how you're going to feel in the future you have no
grasp of. It would be to yourself. It would be a standard that only
you could choose and only you could hold yourself accountable to.
Tell me a million times you love me, I'll never get the message. If I
promise myself I'll try to recognize when I think you mean it, now
we've something to work with.
To me, love would resemble “the ease by which you hold a
standard.” Take Kristen. Find 1 thing horribly objectionable and
“unloveable” about Kristen. If you don't know or care who she is,
pick your favorite kind of anything. Now tell me why it sucks. Can't?
Won't? Don't want to think about it? Well, now you're getting an idea
of the kind of people I want in my circle. Now you know how I can
find myself with an inflated ego. It's never been hard to consider
her, talk to her, think about or care about her. She's there whether
I want her to be or not. Who she is isn't what I think about her,
it's just what I can recognize. What I think she tells herself, about
herself, or why she likes me, I believe.
To me, love looks like recognition. You hear things like “you
can't choose who you love” which just seems like you should get
your eyes checked. You can only see what you allow yourself to. You
can only appreciate that which you have a capacity and willingness to
open yourself up for. Why do I see so many people “falling in love”
or it depicted in 99% of anything media related? There's a lot of
kids recognizing kids. A lot of guilt recognizing guilt. A lot of
insecurity and fear and willful ignorance that feels right at home in
its partners arms. You carry the characters' plight.
I feel like when you choose, no not simply “a person,” but
choose to hold dear, values and ideas and hard fought conceptions of
yourself, your place, and who gets to share your podium, you start
flirting with the ground floor of what my idea of love would look
like. Love is allowed to act in spite of your worst demons. Love gets
to always stand up as something you may not be doing right, but
insists on reminding you of how you could be doing it better. More
true to yourself. More respectful of what you see from the people
around you.
The process, the “work,” comes before you step out into the
world. Before you're capable of carrying out your version of The
Notebook. Time is not a test, it's a testament. You don't get to one
day “shut off” and “forget” why you loved something or
someone. You never really buy the story of “moving on.” You may
be able to calm your body or distract your mind. You didn't change
the person. What you saw or what you felt can't be undone.
Now, love looks like coping. Or if you're dedicated and not just
special, accepting or learning from. It's knowing that using
the ever-fleeting word to speak to what you believe is so concrete
inevitably bites you. It means carrying the weight of recognition.
Taking what you thought you knew and watching it move in ways you
couldn't anticipate, can't deal with, don't want, won't hear of. It's
a faint pulse that accompanies your heart.
Love is the idea, that were you to believe in love, you always
know what you should do, what you want to say, or where you want to
go. You don't use it. You live it. You prove it. You just hope
someone gets what you're doing.
