I'm not in Love
It's something singular really, when love goes down. Maybe in a day, or in a night, or in the succession of those times both, as they encompass a life.
All love is selfish, but I guess it's supposed to be that way. Or how it should start, at least. From the moment of inception we learn to love the things we
do out of a familiar feeling of well-being, a sort of inherent, happiness-survival instinct. And I say that because it is how I remember my life - my own
memory being of course the ultimate subjective entity I could ever think to convey.
Selfish love is that flame which burns brightest. It is the mystery by which all other high emotions in our later lives are judged, and in turn they somehow
pale in comparison; first love is a fatal affliction, one which we first encounter when all is innocence, we struggle to remake the hour, the inception, and
the sheer profundity of the moment, even at times to the detriment of all other happiness we may have perhaps experienced. Selfish love is passionate, is
desire, is vanity, is jealousy, is rage, is vengeance -- is as beautiful as it is sinful as it is ugly.
In this fashion I was in love once, and late at night, under the duress of something found wanting, or something left undone I am in love again. Dulled
feelings stir, I am moved to regret, though I am never quite sure which I regret: that I am no longer in love, or that once, long ago I (very much) was. And
always these thoughts challenge me, which part of that old world would I let become me? Would that I could have my time again, could my love have gone
another way? I suppose this is the thought which chases my eye-lids shut, which gives me pause before a deep sleep, sends the chills twain of nostalgia and angst which press me from fruit-less dreams. Can I do ever enough good in the name of love (or in the guise of devotion) to allow for the whole experience to be anything greater than the wages of sin? Can these simple sacrifices ever alleviate my trespasses in the name of love?
I should preface this by admitting with no shame that I thought myself once to be strong, I thought once that I was different; I would not be forced to look
back afterwards on the labors I would undertake in the name of things just, and ideals righteous. This wholly calculated series of dreams and sequence of
deeds that would bring me here someday (here being simply days to come, back then). It was then I learned the first of many necessary and hard lessons life
teaches as we grow older. I was in love then, and I was selfish, and I knew everything. About those facts I am as certain now as I was certain then-- and I
was correct, I knew everything. It's just I've managed to understand so much more in the waning from those nights and all that was perched upon what seemed to me such great heights.
I see now that the right thing to do rarely ever feels that way, and I've found that most things do not happen for a reason-- they happen simply because they
must (the reasons lie in what we make of the experience after the fact). Further and this being what I mean to stress most ardently, letting go is not a
matter decided by strength or it's absence, but by love. And in these first moments when my love ceased to be selfish I found out what freedom can be found in acts of sincerity, honesty, compassion, and benevolence; these things being for me perhaps the anti-thesis of my darling, selfish love- and if I find that consequence in this case is solitude, these things I list as most important, well they will have to be enough. Because just as time and age on us all will
take a toll, the past too demands it's fair due; a sum subsequently paid in full by the ransoming of memories and misgivings of our youth. Dear entities we
must someday surrender if ever to make a separate peace with a world sullenly bent on someday finding us dead.
And as I look out tonight on the darkness and the stars, I think of the Lyrids, and when I'll see them again, and what they meant to you. Life is everything,
you see, perhaps that is the only word simple enough. The human experience is a narrative of the living, each day souls are lost, and they shall tell no more
tales, they shall see not another sunrise, each day more still fill those ranks, and all prod forward, not wholly certain of where we've been, not quite sure
where it is we're going to, or supposed to be for that matter.
Even now I question my own existence, what solace can I take from the clarity I've gained at the expense of my poor, selfish love? Why have there been no
answers to the sequence of questions which I've come to ask in my times of confusion and uncertainty-- these being ideas about exacting truths I'd never see were I in love, blissfully unaware. Still some things have not changed, perhaps they're incapable, and I must believe always that for the things I've lost- I do not lack- for the darkness I've discovered perhaps now there's a light shining somewhere else, the light of an existence now useless to me, I like to
think it shines brilliantly now for another. And still I have my memories, the great mass of pictures, and promises and feelings that I am no longer a part
of, those I know I'll never be apart from-- there are things about love that even I am not ready to surrender.
I've learned that simply because something is not so it does not necessarily diminish the desire for just that- all is not lost for the day's end, rather the
coming darkness is simply a prequel to the new day, a chance for the sun to shine some where else, each afterall must have their moment in the sun. And if
all should someday fail, all truths be proved moot, and all searches wholly devoid of meaning, I'll at least have sincerity, and I'll have done all from a
position of curiosity, even where innocence is lacking. Even now I wonder if I should ever (like to) be in love again, or what caused the selfish pride in me
to fatally, and wholly give way to the safety and indifference of answering these questions on my own. I guess I like to think that things could be different
someday, for me at least-- maybe not. I like to think maybe someday you'll realize I wanted only to hold on, to keep the light, and my wasted, selfish love
for myself, but because of you I could not.
And I wish sometimes that I was stronger, but I'm not.
All love is selfish, but I guess it's supposed to be that way. Or how it should start, at least. From the moment of inception we learn to love the things we
do out of a familiar feeling of well-being, a sort of inherent, happiness-survival instinct. And I say that because it is how I remember my life - my own
memory being of course the ultimate subjective entity I could ever think to convey.
Selfish love is that flame which burns brightest. It is the mystery by which all other high emotions in our later lives are judged, and in turn they somehow
pale in comparison; first love is a fatal affliction, one which we first encounter when all is innocence, we struggle to remake the hour, the inception, and
the sheer profundity of the moment, even at times to the detriment of all other happiness we may have perhaps experienced. Selfish love is passionate, is
desire, is vanity, is jealousy, is rage, is vengeance -- is as beautiful as it is sinful as it is ugly.
In this fashion I was in love once, and late at night, under the duress of something found wanting, or something left undone I am in love again. Dulled
feelings stir, I am moved to regret, though I am never quite sure which I regret: that I am no longer in love, or that once, long ago I (very much) was. And
always these thoughts challenge me, which part of that old world would I let become me? Would that I could have my time again, could my love have gone
another way? I suppose this is the thought which chases my eye-lids shut, which gives me pause before a deep sleep, sends the chills twain of nostalgia and angst which press me from fruit-less dreams. Can I do ever enough good in the name of love (or in the guise of devotion) to allow for the whole experience to be anything greater than the wages of sin? Can these simple sacrifices ever alleviate my trespasses in the name of love?
I should preface this by admitting with no shame that I thought myself once to be strong, I thought once that I was different; I would not be forced to look
back afterwards on the labors I would undertake in the name of things just, and ideals righteous. This wholly calculated series of dreams and sequence of
deeds that would bring me here someday (here being simply days to come, back then). It was then I learned the first of many necessary and hard lessons life
teaches as we grow older. I was in love then, and I was selfish, and I knew everything. About those facts I am as certain now as I was certain then-- and I
was correct, I knew everything. It's just I've managed to understand so much more in the waning from those nights and all that was perched upon what seemed to me such great heights.
I see now that the right thing to do rarely ever feels that way, and I've found that most things do not happen for a reason-- they happen simply because they
must (the reasons lie in what we make of the experience after the fact). Further and this being what I mean to stress most ardently, letting go is not a
matter decided by strength or it's absence, but by love. And in these first moments when my love ceased to be selfish I found out what freedom can be found in acts of sincerity, honesty, compassion, and benevolence; these things being for me perhaps the anti-thesis of my darling, selfish love- and if I find that consequence in this case is solitude, these things I list as most important, well they will have to be enough. Because just as time and age on us all will
take a toll, the past too demands it's fair due; a sum subsequently paid in full by the ransoming of memories and misgivings of our youth. Dear entities we
must someday surrender if ever to make a separate peace with a world sullenly bent on someday finding us dead.
And as I look out tonight on the darkness and the stars, I think of the Lyrids, and when I'll see them again, and what they meant to you. Life is everything,
you see, perhaps that is the only word simple enough. The human experience is a narrative of the living, each day souls are lost, and they shall tell no more
tales, they shall see not another sunrise, each day more still fill those ranks, and all prod forward, not wholly certain of where we've been, not quite sure
where it is we're going to, or supposed to be for that matter.
Even now I question my own existence, what solace can I take from the clarity I've gained at the expense of my poor, selfish love? Why have there been no
answers to the sequence of questions which I've come to ask in my times of confusion and uncertainty-- these being ideas about exacting truths I'd never see were I in love, blissfully unaware. Still some things have not changed, perhaps they're incapable, and I must believe always that for the things I've lost- I do not lack- for the darkness I've discovered perhaps now there's a light shining somewhere else, the light of an existence now useless to me, I like to
think it shines brilliantly now for another. And still I have my memories, the great mass of pictures, and promises and feelings that I am no longer a part
of, those I know I'll never be apart from-- there are things about love that even I am not ready to surrender.
I've learned that simply because something is not so it does not necessarily diminish the desire for just that- all is not lost for the day's end, rather the
coming darkness is simply a prequel to the new day, a chance for the sun to shine some where else, each afterall must have their moment in the sun. And if
all should someday fail, all truths be proved moot, and all searches wholly devoid of meaning, I'll at least have sincerity, and I'll have done all from a
position of curiosity, even where innocence is lacking. Even now I wonder if I should ever (like to) be in love again, or what caused the selfish pride in me
to fatally, and wholly give way to the safety and indifference of answering these questions on my own. I guess I like to think that things could be different
someday, for me at least-- maybe not. I like to think maybe someday you'll realize I wanted only to hold on, to keep the light, and my wasted, selfish love
for myself, but because of you I could not.
And I wish sometimes that I was stronger, but I'm not.
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