So, the question at hand has been the same for a while. Something I have pondered to the ends of the earth, and without fail, failed to answer! I think – rather I know – that it is the same issue as everyone else has, and it will probably never change (especially not if you’re in your teens, or like me, acting like you are in your early teens). Fact is, love is a bitch (Thank you my dearest friend for that reminder) and will forever be on the bitchy side of what is to be life until the end of time. So yes, the question is obvious – does true love actually exist??
The cause of many sleepless-drug-induced-alcoholically-unstable-chain-smoking nights, which I have had the good fortune of having had many of, it has taught me to be sceptical beyond belief (something I pride myself on) and ironic to my good-hearted nature, it has hardened me to the extent where it is difficult to let any form of it in. But there is always that one time… and yes, that one time is usually as a result of my incapacity to say stay sober.
That brings me to an interesting section of what I am about to explore – have we become so robotically plastic and unreal that we need the novelty of being drunk in order to show even a hint of real emotion? Either drunk, or sad to the point of suicide, in my experience. And this time, the teenager in me refuses to believe that I have limited experience on the topic seeing as (like most post-20 teenagers) I have been extensively hurt beyond belief by love and all it brings along and I refuse to see it any other way. Stubborn. Yes I am. Very bloody stubborn.
Back to the topic at hand though, does true love really exist? I’ve been trying to look at this from various different perspectives, moving away from what a dear friend labelled the children of my time as ‘The Sentimental-and-Selfhelp Oprah generation, but I seem to come back to my soppy ways when pondering love. The fact that I’ve been thriving on the sexually-charged feminist writings of Maya Angelou and Elizabeth Barret Browning, whilst feasting on a glass of red wine and indulging in the painfully passionate (and equally sexual) sounds of Nina Simone, has done absolutely nothing to change this Oprah-ish way of thinking I am apparently ever-so-guilty of. My latest idea on love? Yes, it does exist, but only in a moment that is shared between two complete strangers whom by some weird fateful joke of the gods spot each other and lose their talented tongues within the confines of what is supposed to be their means of protest against the risqué events that are to follow…
So by now you’ve guessed the story, and thus I shall not bore you the cliché that is the detail of a string of events so many of us have experienced so many times before. The point is, my eternal question that I thought when I started would be the topic up for discussion, has actually suddenly changed, for I now realize that (due to my recent experience of butterflies, breathlessness and other crap) that love actually does exist!
The question for me actually is, will love ever prevail over all the doubt in one’s heart, and if so, is it really ever enough to last for longer than the anticipation and build-up that serves as its omnipotent predecessor? In a world where we are so obviously surrounded by love stories gone wrong (no example necessary), I am compelled to wonder if it is worth it to actually fall in love. For I have, and damn I am scared. Jaques Brel, the French poet and inspiration behind many of my alcoholically-incorrect solo social sessions, boldly stated (as translated by his many English admirers) ‘If you go away, on this summers day, then you might as well take the sun away. All the birds that flew in the summer sky, when our love was new and our hearts were high. When the day was young and the night was long, and the moon stood still for the nights bird’s song. If you go away, if you go away, (and just to give Brel’s original effect to you) Ne me Quitte Pas.’
According to Brel, myself and all those in between, it will basically be the end of the value he sees in light, in life and all that is good there-in, should the one he loves desert him. The only thought I’m able to muster after reading the entirety of his beautifully sad text, is whether it is actually then worth it to actually explore this initial zest of infatuation (which I persistently choose to describe as love) any further. It is clear that the loss of such an extreme emotion, will be worse the longer one actually nurtures it, for like the child it makes you within 0.2 seconds refuses to do, it actually only but grows in time. The obvious safe option is to nip it in the bud, deal with the small cut it leaves somewhere in the deepest of you deep, avoiding the possible rupture it could cause alongside multiple heart-attacks in future. Because logically speaking, a cut can be treated with a cheap band-aid, whilst the possible future devastation, tends to lead to painstakingly slow death. Not good death either. Death of the soul. A death you actually (ironically) survive, and have to live with.
But, like Brel so stupidly did as well when he continues in his beautiful text to turn to the positivity within his reach, focussing on the optimistically-sickening possibility of how wonderful life would be should his lover decide to stay and create this mystical serge of happiness we all strive to achieve, I have decided to think past my logically correct thinking telling me to run and run fast. Like a teenager (because I have apparently not evolved much further) I am going to run face first into this wall of infatuation staring me in the face, instead of actually just hitting a heel in the opposite direction. Anyway, this way it’s more interesting. I mean, what would my melodramatic soul be without some juicy love and lust giving it reasons to cry out for a complete breakdown with the end of the world staring it right in the face? So yes, indulge I shall. It is but a mere infatuation, is it not? My head says the possibility of harm is big, but my ego says I’ll survive. So with the ego I shall go. Just like Brel did. And Nina did. And Maya did over and over. But like Barret-Browning, I’m going to take charge of this one, declare my stance, and assure the opposition (for love is a always a war between the lovers involved) that I am in charge of what may happen to me.
So if I get hurt, apparently its all my own fault. Oh God. Please don’t let it be my fault!