Time and space promise we’ll never know one another, not even in the biblical sense, but through this window do I see a welcome perfection of dreams worth dreaming, the cascading glory of thunder and lightning compelling us outside beyond ourselves between the foresight and hindsight of never here and never now.
I see the ideal woman monthly. And on those occasions she brings an inadvertent glimpse of heaven for me, but my nature compels me to understand how I would bring infinite hell for her. So I say nothing. I would never love the world, no conscientious soul could or should, but that doesn’t mean I exist to manifest problems, to grow complications. As if our family, neighbors and co-workers are not in the same boat as ourselves, helplessly caught one and all between a rock and a hard place as the gods pestle and mortar us into a jam for their sandwiches, all convenience remains the opposite of sacrifice, leading to pot-bellies, and dissimulation.
Instincts are more trustworthy than impulses, but temptations really shouldn’t be viewed as bad by default. I smoke for example, to help keep my ego in check and to apply physical limits to my mind wandering too far. And, it helps to dissuade interest from others.
And this may be even more controversial, but I feel while unrequited love can destroy a person, unrequited lust provides a reasoning to go outside and confront the world. 0% chance endearing the pretty lady at your work still makes the job itself worthwhile, like ambiance fuel. People allow for celebrity icons like favored authors or whatever to be vicarious muses constantly and obliviously, inspiring them to be better than where they are or who they are or what they are. Knowing a thing is beyond reach is fine and survivable if you can still get high from the charisma. We don’t need to own a thing to be affected by it or be owned by said thing to be affected by it, which can actually be a very healthy and rewarding experience if we nonetheless own *how* that thing may or may not affect us.
I’d imagine loving where, who and what we can is the only way love exists. It’s not as though love is as predictable as everything else we may encounter in this life. And perhaps that’s the function of it, to deny the absolutes of everything else. But love is not absolute either. It gives a thing or a moment the weight of eternity, for good or bad, but it cannot even carry the weight that we ourselves put on it for more then a finite spell. Given enough time, heaven becomes dull and hell becomes manageable. Either way are we obliged to milk the tragicomic experience for however long it lasts as nothing is forever but death and even the most fervent of dreamers surely must be aware of that much at least, if nothing else and nothing more. Life is the absolute fucking worst. Only a self-righteous ass would ever care to deprive their enemies of it. Yet by sharing in a society, a community or any other collection of personae is it pure arrogance to await such the personal, private void of love somehow being filled. None owes it to me or to you, and you or I owe it to none else. No matter how thrilling seem the prospects.
Maybe my purpose in this life is to give Camus a posthumous headache.
There is nothing to rebuild if there’s no ideology to guide it. From relationships to governance, gluttony and greed proffer mythologies at best and pathologies at worst, tirelessly accepted all the same as a stable foundation when they’ve nothing to stand on. Granting wishes and stroking ego is never sustainable. Salvation free of sacrifice means someone or something gets shortchanged. There’s no empathy to that, no egalitarianism. There’s nothing to be gained from gratification, only an appeasement that’s forever momentary. But build the house, and storms be damned.