Love (3)

I was raised with love. Raised, educated and formed to seek it as the ultimate purpose of being. All books, all movies, all music seemed to transmit this one idea: that love is out-there. For everybody. "Liebe ist fur alle da." "They say the world was built for two." For a very, very long time i've given in to such illusion. Then, after turning 30, i've finally grown up.

I used to believe that love resides in a look. That one can say if someone is in love from the way they look at the other person. And of course, something is definitely shown there, in the eyes (mirror of the soul, isn't that what they say?). But  it has nothing to do with love. Lust, desire, admiration, maybe simply wonder, but love?! 

Let me take a step back now and clarify one thing. When i talk about love i don't talk about the love of parents for their half dna's, for the expulsions of their penises and vaginas, for the byproduct of their unprotected coital activities. That is not love unless we agree that love is also an animal feeling. No, real love is the one you have for someone with whom you do not share any prior connection or dna. Real love is the one you have for a completely alien being. Why? Because you are not bound by any rules or laws or moral constraints to do so or to feel anything for that person. You don't owe it to it. Yet you give it. That's real love. And here's where everybody told me that real love, in the sense defined above, is just a dream, a nice one, but just a dream. 

Obviously allowing a total alien in poses a big danger. Shields down, total vulnerability. A huge amount of trust and reciprocity is needed. You anihilate your inner being to create room for that alien. You fill yourself with the other person, while the other person fills itself with you. You create and share yourselves not your inner fluids. You create a third being which has little if not nothing to do with procreation. You become eachother's world. That's real love. And you won't find any trace of it in the world.

The real revelation though was not the above, but the fact that while creating room for that alien, i've totally eliminated space for myself, that I've spent so much time preparing to love an other that in the end i've ended up not loving...me. 

As i said i am now fully aware of my naivety. That i've been a detective looking for a clue that doesn't exist, to unravel a crime that was never committed. A failed Sherlock for more than half of my life, that's what i've been. A don Quijote seeking some windmills to fight in vain, a Sisif rolling a stone in search of a hill. The search for love waisted years of my life, drained me on the inside, turned me into a misfit human being, with unreasonable expectations. Instead of becoming one with the void of normality, i've became one with the void of loneliness, where only the same old printed pages, the same musical clichés manage to shake me and give me the feelin that i am still alive. 

The search became nostalgia. The epiphany turned into regret. The absence turned into frustration. Each failure turned into anger. Each joke turned into bitterness. I'm like an alchemist who's finally aware that making gold is impossible but misses the thrill of the try. However, any further attempt becomes as ridiculous as it is futile. 

Real love's not dead because real love never existed. But there'll always be Coldplay or Lana del Rey songs.