We Love
Sometimes, even the best of us allow ourselves to have one little flaw, without knowing that this could be the downfall of us.
But sometimes, we really don’t give a damn.
Why?
Such is the depth of our own frailties that enables us to bind ourselves to another. These, with affections not always well-placed, and care that wasn’t necessarily planned. So akin to permitting imperfections to enter and break down our strongholds, those walls from which we hide with our facades, and let in such lovely and all too-fleeting pleasures. What makes us love? It is a cruelty, really, for it is neither a choice nor a destiny, but somehow residing in between the great chasms of eternity. So fragile (it makes us cry and depend and change and hope), so foolish (we believe in lies we never even heard, trust in secrets that have never been made, tears spill over incidents that never happened), and so unmistakably, regrettably human. It is beyond our terribly rational comprehension, so meaningless and indescribable; a weakness and a strength all at once.
Air, food, water, light, shelter. Objects and substances that sustain our physical beings, but so lacking and insufficient for those matters that are truly important. The human body can survive for days, even weeks without accumulating nutrients, yet the spirit has to feed on something, lest it dies slowly, agonizingly, till what is left is an empty, broken shell of what used to be. It has needs, needs that must be fulfilled; needs that cannot be ignored. It is the most important part of being truly alive; that unexplainable spark behind our eyes that earned them the epithet of being windows to our soul. Perchance to prove that we exist, that we are real, that we are something more than mindless creatures that move upon instinct?
Sometimes, the heart (a pumping organ, part of the circulatory structure, which transmits lifeblood into the channels and passageways; yet so much more than a vital lump of tendons and flesh) does things for reasons that reason itself cannot understand. Such human failings that we can’t risk having yet still possess simply to experience those moments of electricity dancing on your skin, your veins rushing with unlived passion, and your heart beating with purpose once again. Cheap, pointless thrills; stupid, futile dreams, but perhaps…
…it is just too easy to lie, to hate, to kill. All it takes is one instant of reckless abandon, with primal intent and adrenaline flowing in your system, and bang, bang, you’re dead. But it is hard to love, such a seemingly unending journey, an escapable, toiling challenge. It surpasses a mere undertaking; we would need to be perfect, without failings, to achieve such a powerful and exhaustingly pure emotion. It must be so, and maybe it should have been.
But this will remain a great mystery. For we are human, and because we are human, we love.
