M,
It gets familiar, if not easier to do. Love, especially the romantic
sort, is such momentary madness but it lingers in the air and then in the
lungs, and then in life. It is madness to look at a stranger for understanding.
To build lines across flaws and flops and breaks and unimaginable weakness and
seek to construct, from this debris, a sense of home and heart. There is a lot
of virtue ascribed to love, a lot of moral instruction and a lot of rage about
its commandments broken. It is wrapped up in the human need to be understood,
seen, respected and safe. Yet, it promises none of these things.
In actual fact, the frequency of failure, of love turning to scorn and
then hate, of lifelong scars and betrayal and falling down, shows that more
than safety, there is danger here. It is like everything else: bad in fantasy
but usually based on the same. Love makes small seem gigantic, wrong seem right
and boring seem lively and adventurous. It is the ultimate hallucinogen, and this
illusion can lead to death or more life. There is no appropriate way to
approach it. It happens or it does not happen.
In the latter half of our first decade, I cannot say we have even scratched
the surface. It does not save you from yourself and it certainly will not save
your partner. It is more like being in winter and waiting out the bad spots. Then
it is like being at the height of beauty and sunlight, basking in the open
waters and having a partner, a co-conspirator and a home to end up at, no matter
what. Having chased the figments all my life, it is a fine thing to see it come
together in your eyes and your embrace. All the old faults remain, all the old hesitations
and trauma and stupidities but not without the other side of things: flashes of
light in the darkening sky, a tranquil moment, sparks of pleasure and visions
of heaven. It feels like a road and home at the same time. It is momentary
madness with eternal consequence.