Starving in Love

I have been witness to a sort of love that when truly exhibited is really not love at all. This sort of love is warped and skewed and consumed in insecurity. The beholder of this love believes that love is a finite commodity in which an abundance in one direction or place automatically constitutes the lack there of in another direction or place.

Love is something that must be grasped, fought for and won and then held on to with everything one has. Love must be sought out, taken and then defended and protected. Here, it is not that I would not stand up for my love for another or want to protect one that I do love, but I feel that in many cases chivalrous love tends toward a greater deal of hostility than I am willing to exhibit or comfortable with producing. I think actual love tends to stand on its own and be far less volatile than the fairytale knights or romance comedies would have us think.

Those that behold love as a finite commodity see it as something that must be hoarded once found. Once a source is uncovered it is to be cut off from all other potential outlets, all avenues by which that source does or may direct itself must be snuffed out or driven away. Love is not unlike a discovered mine of precious minerals in which the discoverer must spend, ironically, more time and effort protecting and isolating the bounty than actually enjoying or drawing any real pleasure or fulfillment from it.

One must isolate the source so that the finder can then have the love they have found all to the self for it is there that they think fulfillment lies. Ironically, this hoarded, isolated love will wither and die like a plant that has been hidden away in a safe. Hoarded love dissolves if taken and attempted to be kept. Isolated love boils down and steams away leaving behind nothing but a thick residue of jealousy and emptiness.

This love does not fill at all, but starves the holder. Those who seek love in this way and fashion and want it in this state only will search and feed on it perpetually and without satisfaction. This love creates hell for the holder as they perpetually seek, perpetually consume and perpetually starve, but never to death. One does not die on this starvation because it is a starvation of gluttony on nothing, and a lot of nothing cannot kill a man.

In truth, actual love is deadly. Actual love is infinite. An abundance of it in one place constitutes an abundance of it in the places surrounding. Actual love is to be given and never kept, not sought after and found, but learned and developed. Actual love fills when it is given away and satisfies when it reaches another not the self.

Actual love is not some stupid, random, twittering feeling one happens upon or catches. Love is something that is worked for and shown through sacrifice and sweat. Actual love is active not passive, moving not staying. Those who know actual love cannot rid themselves of it fast enough. Those who truly have this love also know the truth of it, they know that in the end, it will kill them.

Those who know actual love have felt the pierce of it, for it is sharp and direct, not dull and ambiguous. The degree of pungency is the strength of love. It is not a dull blade that tears apart that which it attempts to cut, it's not a flat spike that smashed what it tries to puncture, the pierce of it leaves just a small hole in the self, just a tiny prick one may not even feel at first, but a cut to the core none the less and one that causes the self to hemorrhage.

The novel, "Children at the Gate" comes to mind in the fact that the main character is hard as nails. He is impenetrable and has wrapped himself so tight that none can touch him. Being untouchable, however, constitutes a complete lack of feeling. To not be touched is to not feel, but in order to attain feeling one must be cut or broken, but once cut or broken one is then maimed and bleeding to death. At the close of the novel, the main character has experienced this very event and it is said that his heart is slowly bleeding.

Actual love, in this then, is something that comes on slowly and in time. Actual love does not happen in the course of one scene, one good chat, one moment that is somehow better than the rest, but it insists on being spread over all and everything. Actual love takes place and develops in the quantity of time and effort that is given. Quality is important as always. Negative actions over a long period of time will not produce admiration. However, when a quantity of time and effort exists, quality is stretched and flattened and a little ends up going a long way.

These days our society seems to be obsessed with quality filled moments. Quality vacations with the family once a year and super meaningful chats to kin that are intended to shape and fix character. Quality tends to scare me. I am not a quality person. My personality is not exhibited in moments, I cannot conjure memorable, wisdom filled speeches and when I feel I need to be saying something meaningful if a moment arises I usually just get hungry.

Quantity, however, I can do. Large amounts of time with another with nothing seeming to be said is a true recharger for me. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a smart conversation and still despise small talk, however, my deep conversations usually take anywhere from a few hours to days at a time. I think this is why children reside with their parents for at least eighteen years of their lives. This window is for all those out there that may not always say the right thing at the right time, but will definitely hang out in general silence if asked or needed knowing that somewhere in that passing, through various words said and actions witnessed, something, somewhere will click.