This morning walking amid the quiet of the outdoors, I heard the familiar sound that has awakened me every morning in the spring and summers, the familiar keening that tugs the very heartstrings. A whole winter of absence, I heard the reawakening call of my favourite mourning dove, calling out to me as if it were spring again. But alas, the call is mystifying as much as deceptive. Waking to another blanket of winter, just when there was hope of the end of it being in sight, it was not spring that was beckoning, but the yearning of it.
Could fulfillment ever be felt as deeply as loss? Romantically ... love must surely reside in the gap between desire and fulfillment, in the lack, not the contentment. Love was the ache, the anticipation, the retreat, everything around it but the emotion itself.
Why is there so much to write about love? Is it really so much the aspect of it or is it the absence of it? Is it the mystery of it, or rather its mystical element, like the unicorn, the dragon, written of, spoken of, yet remains tangibly unseen? Our emotions evoked, are they yet misty wisps of a greater fire, yet unseen? Or mayhap just tangible evidence of an intangible entity.
Why is it so much the yearning that gives us a greater exhiliration, so to speak, than the possession? For, to possess is to belittle the vast into attempting to put something eternal into a quantity we can control and measure. And to do so only grants us a taste that is soon forgotten, and in the seeking of that little bit more, we grant ourselves only dissatisfaction.
Everytime we attempt to hold onto it tighter, it elludes our grasp, because it is not something that can be held. To call it ours, we soon become less satisfied with it, because it makes it smaller than we thought or still think it to be, for to own it so easily is beyond what it was meant to be. We want love, and yet, we do not want it when we have it, because what we have is not what we seek.
Love in itself is meant to be a perfection beyond words. Yet to find it in another person goes against what love could be, for humans are the semblance of imperfection. So easily we question whether the love we seek in that person is truly what we could 'settle' for.
We all seek our 'soulmate', and yet in this term we hold this person in a light above everyone else in the world, because this is the person made for you, the person who brings out the best in you, who completes you without having to try, who is in essence 'perfect'; not just your 'soul mate' but your 'sole mate', for there could be no other person in comparison. But to search for the person who is above everyone else in the world is harder than could be said possible. Because in a world of millions, billions, all moving about, going about their own lives, can you imagine that out of them you will find that perfect person. And out of those millions, billions, all moving about, going about their own lives, can you imagine how incredibly hard it is just to find that ONE. Just one. How could it be so impossibly hard to accept that one person out of so many?
We do not accept just anyone. We hold ourselves in a higher light than we might choose to admit, for if we did not deem ourselves of such worth, how could it be this hard to agree on just one person out of the million we meet. And in this way, does love manifest itself as its selfishness counterpart? Is this love, or is it simply a sense of survival? And if it were not just love, and indeed a sense of survival, then it is done out of love for ourselves, and thus, selfishness.
But not to say that selfishness is wrong. How could it be wrong, when we cherish our survival, a God given right amid his natural laws. So, where does love start, and where does it end- does it even have a beginning or end?
And our yearnings, when does it start, when does it end? Somewhere down the line, we have this ache for something...more. And we aren't exactly sure what it is, but we want it. We want it almost more than anything else we could ask for, and sometimes we don't realize we do, sometimes we don't accept that we do, and sometimes we outright deny we do. But we do. We wish to dip into that pool of enternity that is love, and experience its magic. To stretch out on the tips of our toes, to almost fly, to touch the stars in doing so, and fall among them without doubting that this is what we were waiting for, without realizing we were waiting.
Love waits.
