When love runs strong, undiluted,
As searing white flame in your veins
When it is a battering storm
Also the calm, before it came,
When it builds, as much as it breaks
When love can rage to pulverize
How can someone find what it takes,
To disconnect, avert your eyes?
When love overruns, when it drives
Thorn roots in the cracks of the known
Widening chasms betwixt thoughts
Incoherent, insane, ingrown,
When its sheer potency, broils
Bubbles and froths, beyond measure
The passions of strengths unbridled
Are poison, as much as pleasure
Are bitter, bitter belladonna
Innocuous looking, but vile
In innocent love’s purple shades
Malignant, it lurks, and beguiles
When love becomes so all consuming
That it eats out raw, your soul
Will it have been worth, all the pain?
Is it still love, so uncontrolled?
When love threatens, breaks all confines
When it thrashes against its binds
Obliterates, erases you,
When love kills,
Will you draw the line?
Let’s talk about love.
A tired subject, often repeated. Discussed and dissected endlessly, to similarly fruitless conclusions. Because you can’t define love. Neither can you dissect it down to its bones. It just is, what it is.
I was reading Wuthering heights earlier today, god knows which time. Wuthering heights is somewhat close to my heart, because of Heathcliff, the insane and intense man at its core. The hurricane and the wreckage, the lover and the brute. I always find myself identifying with him in the oddest (and saddest) of parallels. Bound to love that will never come to fruition. Hopelessly fixated on dreaming, painting an impossible fantasy, and broken and ravaged by the acute realization that it’s never going to happen. In a nutshell.
But I wonder, as I have wondered every time I close that book. And, of late, every time I close my eyes in a semblance of solitude. Is love so strong that it is crippling, love at all? We cannot help who we love. But unrequited, wasted as a nymph drowning in her own reflection. Is love so powerful that it drives you to madness, to despair, to throwing yourself against the rocks with every wave… Is it love?
Is it love, when it is so unbalanced, so incomplete…
Is it still love?
Of late I’ve been thrown off balance even more, by the very inadequacies that used to be my strengths. At the center of a lot of the turmoil is the very same fact. I wouldn’t go as far as calling it unrequited love, no, but it is an unrequited something. a deficiency, if you will. It makes coming home to an empty bed easier, but coming home with an empty heart, where there is plenty of room for unsettling thoughts to echo, that is the problem.
And while Heathcliff found his peace first, in tormenting generations of unlucky Lintons, and then in following Catherine to where she slept under the flowering tree, I’m afraid both those solutions are beyond my grasp. I do understand the need to seek out that solitude, that confinement, the self imposed exile. But when the ‘object of my affections’ continuously evades my reach, well.. It’s walking on burning coals to revisit those memories, when there’s the constant danger of finding that they were just a dream. And what’s more, that they meant nothing at all…
Because that’s what unrequited love is. A dream, a fragile crystal dream teetering on a thought. And as much as it hurts, to force myself to sleep just for that dream to be true, even for a few moments? It still aches unbearably at the mere thought of waking up to the truth- that there is no love, there never was….