It should be about the passage of time, lost opportunities, chance encounters, and stolen moments of shared possibility. But, when it strikes, it’s almost always about the attraction. Love. Destroyer of appetites, inciter of emotional riots, and purveyor of late night blog entries…
There are certain moments in life when the true gravity of a missed opportunity lies heavy upon one’s shoulders. It is in these moments of impossible despair that we are often given the clearest view of ourselves we will ever have. Never are our desires, wants, and, in many ways, needs, more apparent than in the wake of the truth. Some things, regardless of how unjust they may seem, are simply not meant to be. Such is the curse of possibility. One never truly knows if he has made the correct decision.
Understanding the idiosyncrasies of love is an impossible feat, one that would require many lifetimes and imperviousness to pain. Seeking the why to such a powerful impetus will only lead to sleepless nights and utter disappointment. In other words, it’s unattainable for anybody with a pulse, and even then, I believe the dead can still feel the fanatical anguish of unrequited love.
Men have gone to war for love. Empires have risen and fallen as part of love’s preposterous notion of a shared existence in which we try to allow ourselves to let another human being in. Love is the acme of the human condition. If one can find a way to master his emotions while simultaneously being attracted to other human beings, he has indeed achieved some variation of Nirvana.
To define love is to teach a class in absurdity, for no one definition can fully encompass love’s unlimited boundaries. Love takes many forms, and defies classification. It cannot be eradicated nor can it be prevented. When all else is gone love will, in one form or another, remain. "Remember tonight, for it is the beginning of always," wrote Dante, and in my opinion, few things are as pure and historical as the moment love is born.
