A Scribbled Manifesto for Loving Simply Is love really so obvious when it appears? In its most elemental form is love not determined by mutual opinions and experiences? We all know the rush of fools to transform a pair of bight eyes and a warm smile into the ultimate components of a soul mate. But after the initial wave of emotion seeps into our blood stream, after the bright eyes grow vaguely critical and warm smile mutates into calculating smirk, what then? What remains of the first day to commit for life? Is love selfish or selfless, or both simultaneously? Do we become resigned to love in general, or are we ordained to love individually? Are we endowed by our Creator with the natural ability to love and be loved, or is such a miraculous capacity something we must seek for ourselves? Is love only a fancy or a feeling? Neither can be true because the former is as fleeting as the moment that first ignited the spark to ask the question, and the latter changes with the weather. Is it possible to love aesthetically: in shades, in texture, in primary, or pastel? In a burst of light? In deep shadow? If it is encouraged to fall in and out of love, then is it not equally conceivable that we may fall up and down with love? When a ball bounces we do not declare it to be defective, on the contrary, we rejoice in its resistance to bust. Why is it desirable that love should conquer all? Though I be but one voice, I have studied the history of mankind well enough to understand that a heart in bondage breeds nothing but resentment and mutiny. Humanity, throughout its sordid existence, has risen time and again to overthrow the sovereign, the dictator, and the persecuting regime. If love is such a devastating master, then why should we submit to it willingly? Why should we seek its unique torment so desperately? We do not desire to be conquered by love, but to be reached, to be released from the fear of rejection and the growing pain of loneliness, to know that the possibilities are limitless. Love is not a conqueror, but a promise! Love is not a promise of romance, for romance is either tensely tragic or supremely happy, thanks to eloquent companions who write of sparse landscapes, forbidden passion, and untimely death as if these are the favorable conditions to a poetic ending. Love is not a promise of miserable demise, but of renewed life! I am a romantic who does not believe in romance. Love is not grand, but the most rudimentary pledge we take. Love is the information we borrow from the trees. Love is the person, acutely unattainable the night before, now searching for us at sunrise. Love is the memory. Love is not without rage because love is a real tale. Fairies have no place in it. Love is as raw and natural as the river of tears that runs through it. If we are ready to laugh for love, then we must also ready ourselves to bleed. Love is always requited because anything else would be ignorance. Love grows stronger in conflict, but dies from indifference, much as a flower thirsts for rain during drought. What fools these mortals be, indeed! Often rallied behind as rebellion, love protests nothing and affirms everything. Often cliched as a force of nature, love is far more cosmic than the predictable weather patterns of this Earth. But it is a truth universally acknowledged that love manifests itself in the smallest seed and simplest twig. Why is humanity so confounded by love, so blind to its transient temperament? Love is mysteriously lucid and subtly dense. Love is the prayer a child whispers before falling asleep. Love is the squeeze of a hand and a forgiving glance when every impulse in your body is screaming to pull away. Even the seeming lack of love is a testament to its vast power over our collective imagination and our indestructible capacity for hope. Love is near and far, deep and wide. Love is the air we breathe and the water we drink. Love is a series of kinetic movements. Love is being still and being content to stay there. Love is the only law that governs this universe, and the infinite others we can only guess at. Because we are the dreamers of dreams, we must gaze in wonder at the cusp of eternity. Because we are the music makers, we must expand our horizons with this glimpse at God. After all, love is a never ending song. - This may be the answer to the inquiry that was made in the Beginning. © Miriam McEwen, allpoetry
Posted on: Fri, 12 Jul 2013 03:14:00 +0000
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