Lost Art of Love

I have often felt one of life's spectators, standing on the outside and looking in at the obvious, the erroneous- and the systematic way that the human race attempt to mangle, confuse and pillage the very vein of their existence. It's not always their fault of course... Overwhelming feelings, often irrartional or nonesensical to the spectator, can mar their better judgement and therefore deface beauty's potential. The dimly premature duckling has rarely the chance to adopt the divine, and wholesome qualities recognised by the Queen and her subjects, as the fully-developed swan.



The above can be applied to many realities of human existence. It could be of war, of the covetious greed that consumes all who fix their eyes adamantly on the prize, of a painting- of the need to overdo. In this case I am casting your mind back to a time where you became, in a mere instant, completely emerged in the idea that you had suddenly been divided into two. Standing agape, looking into your mirror image in the heavy realisation that life was no longer a self-centred, ego-driven race to the finish. Instead you saw the rapturous beauty in another- touched upon the gates of eden with the knowledge that you no longer give to get. I speak of course of the endlessly indefinable state of... Liebe, gra, amor, amour! The universally binding inebriation with the power to both unite and divide that is love.



Love's true connection perceivably only touches upon an individual two, maybe three times in a lifetime if they're lucky. The rest of the time is spent cowaring away from possibility, licking the wounds of dolor, and scarring others in a closed quest for replacement or perhaps fulfilment.



Aside from the few sociopaths of this world- I included as the occasional claimant- there is not one person who in their strongest frame of mind, will not deter true love. They cannot. But in as simple as one statement can deduce, there are ultimately a million difficulties of why it can never usually come to be. I came to be what I call a 'romantic' long after there was male interest or adolescent maturity- arriving in to an almost incestuous sea, as a blissfully naive antecedent in contrast to my current scholarly self. A few lessons learnt, for each tender burn. And I still have somewhat of a journey before me... I seem to have spent much of my time remorsefully in reception of my beloved's rejection- yet yielding the same foible possibly twice as much as it is received. And for my minutes passed in exile, it seems I have been condemned with the idea that I am not welcome to love. I may not even deserve it, and I surely can't express it! This is almost received like a satanic ritual at a Baptism. But I am far from ceasing to handwrite the letters of tender admission, or to shower my affection poetically with my strongest and most heartfelt affirmation. As I can't possibly believe that there isn't one inamorato who may change his mind, or settle for unconditionality rather than second best.



But I have seen the ultimate balance at play. Karma ensures that love is given as often as love is taken, and within the relationship itself is where the balance continues to falter. Have you noticed how in a couple, one side will generally be more besotted than the other, and the other will then naturally slip into control and steer themself toward a greater sense of independence...? I am usually the latter- a hugely individual counterpart, escaping just as the suffocation creeps in and preys upon my last breath. This has never exceeded three months, and I have never been in love with who is descriptively, my partner.



But I have touched upon love's sweet divinity... I have found it to exist in the shortest amount of time, and to remain for an unlimited amount of time- believing almost wholeheartedly that such a potent form of human emotion can indeed occur in a month, a week, or potentially even in an instant; though often temporarily, and even less so indefinately.



The problem lies in the conflict between my non-conformist, strictly divergent inclination- and the rigid conventions of society. Whether lawfully placed or not; people have a tendency to look for a defined common understanding- a safe order upon which everyone is agreed. Therefore to enter what society has dictated to be a 'relationship': an institition whereby the subjects are subjected to a set amount of time they are to spend together, what is allowed or disallowed for the other half in their own time, the time in which a text message has to be replied, obligatory sex, jealously, and ultimately a form of possessive imprisonment. And this may not be any of what people want or expect upon entering the institition- they just slip into it in a swoop of not-so-blissful ignorance, or in the manner of 'settling'. And I'll avoid either fate at any cost.



Most couples I encounter seem a sad state of affairs- complaining about their inamorata or inamorato, falling into a sadly uninspiring regime, losing friends, becoming no fun for anyone to know, and ultimately becoming a lot less happy than when they were on their own. Therefore it seems far better to run a coupling on want and desire- contacting the other when they occur to you, appeal to you. Sharing time when it is sacred and unaverted. Giving with no ulterior means of getting. And pure selflessness for the small price of sublime felicity. I remember each captivating uniquity of every beauteous sweetheart, and the close detail of their rapturous allure.



Considering love's ambrosial reward, I don't necessarily seek out my soul mate actively- but perhaps rather instinctively. Then in terms of being a poet, a writer and a musician... I don't indubitably experience a whole other realm of feeling from those less outwardly expressive. But I am more likely to reach out in a bid to encounter the full spectrum of human state and emotion. Push the boundaries of experience as far as they will go in the name of creativity, and exploration.


And so often witness to the peril of my spirits and the investment in another, the instinctive search becomes an addiction. And I a parasite of each Muse must never cease to pause. For as long as there is the capacity to love, there is the capacity to forage, falter, and inevitably to fall...