Oh, but I do love
thee, and when I love thee not,
Chaos is come again.
I blame the poets. I blame the whole sentimental bunch. John Donne.
Alfred Lord Tennyson. Edgar Allan Poe. William Wordsworth. Robert Burne.
Edmund Spencer. And the father of them all, William Shakespeare.
Because, for some reason, they had to share their delusions of love with
the rest of the world; and they had to do it t in the sappiest manner
imaginable. Someone somewhere experienced a regrettable lack of
foresight, and had the thought to romanticize love. The world has never
been the same since. I blame the poets.
Love is all of a vast array of things. I have no intention of adding to
the ever growing chorus of sentimental hogwash. That love exists at all.
That love makes all of life’s problems seem trivial. That the supreme
happiness in life is the conviction that we are loved. That where there
is love, there is life. That love conquers all. An annoying litany of
increasingly senseless gushings that have absolutely no basis in fact.
Once upon a time, in an age I would kill to have lived in, man
understood that whatever stirrings he experienced directing him to the
fairer gender were simply evolutionary reminders of his responsibility
to multiply and fill the earth. He made no pretenses or false
courtesies, never bothered to hide behind timid compliments. He got
straight to the point. And, most importantly, he wrote no teary ballads
about people he knew existed for a greater purpose, or sang about
emotions that had no business their ugly heads. How the times have
Love is thus, in all fairness, the very embodiment of misery.
It lulls and deceives. It takes hold of the fastenings of one’s entire
existence and gives every indication of holding on, until, without
warning and in the most brutal manner possible, it wrenches free leaving
scars that never really heal. It dresses every moment in the flowery
garments of happiness and the heady scents of bliss, then- without
warning- it reclaims its garments and directs one into a chilling storm
with naught but their own nudity to think about.
It haunts and it plagues. It fills one’s nights with pleasant, fanciful
dreams, then just before dawn, supplants these with terrifying
nightmares. It is a dull ache; a slow, fierce burn that ultimately
consumes all that stands in its path. It is a golden trunk whose keys
one spends an eternity searching for, only to be confronted by the
gloomy emptiness within. It is that bottle of liquor that carries with
each sip the assurance of enjoyment, but keeps demanding more, until the
glorious buzz fades into a pounding headache and endless regrets, not
to mention a thoroughly taxed liver.
So much to say, so little inclination.
I suppose my view is overly bleak. But I have a responsibility to those
hapless souls who still go blindly into that ditch that they have been
led to believe holds untold treasures. And I have a responsibility to
myself; to guard vigilantly against these treacherous emotions that will
surely be the death of me.
It is thus that I shall go to my grave; shouting to the best of my
ability that there is no love, only pain and utter desolation. My faith
in feeling and beauty, along with what was once a zealous pursuit of
happiness, have evaporated, leaving me with one thought, and one thought
I want my heart back.