Arguably, the most mysterious human ability is to love. I’m quite a large advocate for unconditional platonic love, and a lot of my restful contemplation revolves around this concept. A more foreign and intimidating subject for me is the romantic type of love-one which has given me internal emotional whiplash as I do not doubt it has done for all others as well. One of my favorite quotes popped up for the first time while I was browsing my Tumblr dashboard awhile ago, and the reality of it punched me in the stomach. I, myself, have not read the book it has been procured from and therefore feel a slight guilt in appropriating its content without understanding the context in which it was written, but for all purposes, I feel like it must be shared:
“One day, whether you are 14, 28 or 65,
you will stumble upon someone who will start a fire in you that cannot die.
However, the saddest, most awful truth you will ever come to find––
is they are not always with whom we spend our lives”
― Beau Taplin,
I do believe we have all had encounters with beautiful people with beautiful souls, whether these encounters be daily or minuscule, as when you pass them on a busy street. They may feel the same as you, but nothing ever compels either of you to forward your relationship past strangers, acquaintances, or friends. You prefer one another as an idea. You prefer their existence as the perfect, kind, interesting phenomenon it is. You never let one another know your true feelings because it breaks the unspoken pact between you that your existence is mutually appreciated, but only from afar.
I must ask myself in this case if this is the one way we truly love. If we love something so, we are supposed to let it go. Does this internal flame burn brightest when we never encounter a romantic relationship with someone we love? Does it save ourselves from agony and distress when we worry about infidelity or loss? Or does the flame burn brightest when we admit to our affections and find them to be well accounted for and the other as willing as ourselves to suffer in their worries as well? This is the love paradox.
I do not believe that if we love someone as an idea, we do not truly love them. We love who they are, we just cannot fathom their faults. It may be a flawed love, which I will not argue the opposite point for-however, it may be the most intense love we ever feel for another person, unless we fall for the idea of another as they fall for ours and our idea of their perfection includes their shortcomings; weaknesses, strengths, despair, and all.