April 8, 2012 § Leave a comment
It can be compared to looking at fine art. The colors splashed across the canvas, the artist’s emotions overwhelming your own. The moment before this one disappears. Your future dissolves into irrelevancy. You forget the person you were prior to knowing this power. You feel like you have never felt before, and nothing of your own will could have conjured up the breathtaking awe that you feel while marveling in what seems to be sacred fear. Your eyes roam to the curves, the lines, and the intricate beauty in the delicate strokes; for a brief moment, as your mouth unknowingly hangs open, you wonder how you have lived this long without it. Walking away, forever changed, you realize a new depth to your heart, greater revelation fueling your mind, and an unusual sense that you are both useless but powerful. You are now humbled, knowing that there is something so much greater going on far from within the reach of your sweaty palms. Yet, you are also rejuvenated, as if you are standing on top of a mountain, inspired, feeling as if every one of your dreams is achievable and you are worthy to touch the stars.
This is love, the intoxicating awe that leaves you somehow breathless one moment but panting the next. We all but fail to give it any credit these days. It is for romantic-comedies and 16 year olds who don’t know any better, we tell ourselves. But when we lay in bed at night, staring out the window at the moon, something in the pit of our stomach tells us otherwise. Single people, 16 year olds, the hopeless romantics, know without knowing that some great feeling never before tasted, seen, or heard, is awaiting them. They look for the words but are usually only left with an ache of anticipation.
Two people sit across the table from one another, staring into each other’s eyes, either looking into the flame or looking for it. Some bask in the selfless moment while the bliss nearly obliterates their individuality; they have never felt oneness quite like this. They are certain their soul has united with another, and they have never before felt more whole. Two other people can sit at that same table, but the candles, the plates, the glasses, even a measly salt and pepper duo swim freely in the vast ocean that separates the once tight bond. When the couple looks deep enough, past the salt and pepper shakers, past the years, and through the hedge of mistakes, they find that original spark keeping its promise to stand the test of time.
Then there are us flameless. The ones who loved and lost. The ones who loved only to be told there was nothing for return. But we have not forgotten that feeling. Eventually through years of sleepless nights, emptied wine bottles, and cold winters we forget the ones we loved, but that feeling of love, it never leaves us. With our scars as a most painful reminder, we wake up every morning aware that something more beautiful than art, more inspiring than the most treasured painting, is out there. The space around us is like a cold, empty museum. All of the walls are bare. The holes still in the walls, the dirty footprints of observers, prove it wasn’t just a dream. We stand broken in front of the white walls, gawking at the space.
The hopeful element is that love does not give up on us. Like great art, it is timeless, eternal, and holding the power to mesmerize even the hardest of hearts. Love does not discriminate us because of our bruises, failures, or naivety. Without any help from our manic control, love will find us whether we look for it or not. We can try our hand at sketching or paint-by-number, but a great masterpiece is something our measly imaginations will never fathom. So we walk through the museum, browsing, oohing and aahing, pausing and sighing, until we see it, until we feel what we have never dreamt of feeling. It is something that can be compared to looking at fine art. It is love.