Some of us never know love, some of us never share love, and some of us never fail to love.
In every grimy, nasty circumstance of life’s misery or in the most opulent of lives, the experience of love never fails to elevate us. Love improves us. It can heal the deepest wounds, teach us where education fails, inspire us to innumerable acts of beauty and drive us to achieve the formerly impossible. Love as a word is tossed around a lot, to be sure. Some speak of love in terms of things. Things they appreciate, laugh at, and things they would want. These uses are simple intrusions onto the soft, blurry edges of what love is.
They infest the tattered edges of our most noble evolution, they are the bastardized usurpation of our inner drive for good by the forces of the material world. Love of people and animals, and perhaps even plants, can be returned. Cars and homes and belongings, philosophies and practices, religions and biases we hold dear do not love us back.
They simply serve to divide our love, to diffuse it among the myriad facets of mundanity, perversity and obsession our environment wishes us to subscribe to. Objects and concepts can be "loved," but they do not love back. The love of the unloving is as much the antithesis of love as hate is. Love for our fellow being is a reward in itself.
The most profound of loves can transform us, focus us, and elevate us, carrying us far from the obsessively mundane perversion of everyday life. Be it requited or not, returned or not, lasting or not, our need to breach the black wall of the infinite alone can be forever sated by a single moment of true love, shining in the light with our fellow sojourners. That moment is singular for some, multiple for others, and, for a lucky few, continuous and unabated, an existence shining in the darkness and breaking down the wall until all the universe is light.
Let there be love.
Photo by Spencer Bennett