Love is fire. Love is Creation and Destruction in harmony of form and purpose. The same strength of emotion which can offer resolve against doubt and clarity of purpose in quiet moments of reflection can, without warning or hesitation, grow into a conflagration of self-destructive best intentions. I have known the danger of this fire long enough to realize the truth: That, despite all of my intellect, regardless of willpower or skill at perception…I have absolutely no control whatsoever over that primal force which exists bound together within the core of my being.
When I was a younger man, I promised myself that—when given the chance to form bonds of fraternity, of camaraderie with others who gained my trust—I would become an aegis for them if ever they needed me. In my naiveté, I swore to take the hurt of my loved ones as my own responsibility, and to apply myself fully toward maintaining the happiness of each individual who fell into that sphere of social and familial interaction over which I had influence. This promise was made with the understanding that, regardless of personal cost, I would remain unyielding in my devotion and protection of those who needed me to succeed for them when they could not affect change for themselves. In short, I promised to accomplish the impossible.
Half my life later, I have failed in love, at every turn. Love has become a poison, dripping from my mouth like venom from a serpent. That poison is a corrosion, inexorably eating away the bonds of companionship I’ve crafted with time and effort, heartache and tenacity. More than failing in love, I must admit to being afraid of its power. Love has sway over me, and compels me toward undermining every good deed I might accomplish with my life.
Love, as a realized concept, exists for me as a fragment of myself given full voice and recognition. Like a mirrored, often-times antagonistic presence in my subconscious, provoking me toward extreme actions in the name of keeping that oath which defines me, Love understands each facet of my psyche, turning self-doubts and discontent into gizzard stones wearing away at my confidence and happiness when expectations are not met. Love claimed for itself a seat at the head of the table shared between my heart and mind, steering the vessel housing the spark of divinity that exists within me onto a path of masochistic indulgence.
“Andrew,” I hear Love whisper, from its alcove in my chest, where the hurt stays after each mistake made; just long enough to burn its imprint into my memory along the way. This place in me which Love claims is a collection, a reliquary for my history gathered in storage close to my heart. “Andrew, why are you failing again?”
“I’m doing my best,” I explain, already exhausted and aware of the path the conversation will follow. “Isn’t it enough that I’m trying?”
“Oh, Andrew,” I hear Love sigh, “If you only tried a little harder, then we both know you could fix any problem.”
The anger starts in me, like a hot coil in my chest. I knew it would come, but there is no denying its advent. “You don’t think I’m putting everything I have into this? Money given in good will, time wasted in fear and exhaustion, waiting to know I’ve made even the smallest difference…all those times I never did….”
“And, as many times as you fell short, you succeeded!” Love raises its voice now, insistent, demanding to be heard. My heart starts pounding, hot blood running through me. “We’ve made an entire philosophy out of being there when others needed us to be, haven’t we? When the rules don’t work, what do we do Andy?”
“We change them,” I growl, defiance toward the challenges in front of me locking my muscles taut, a reactor running at critical mass.
“Damn right we do!” Love stands from its seat, undeniable. “Yes, life hurts as often as it brings joy. Yes, you go to sleep alone each night; I keep that pain in you, that longing, with me always.” Love looks around the room, eyes so very much like my own filled with melancholy. “The truth is, I’ve always held onto your pain for you, even in those brief moments when all was good in your world. If you want to know a secret about me, that pain is what I forged the fixtures holding your mausoleum of memories to your ribcage instead of your brain with. Each ache and scrape and cut and wound, a new nail for a new regret. There is beauty in that, perhaps. But, Andy, if you don’t break, if you make Life yield first, you can accomplish anything.”
The fire smolders in me, its brilliance spent in a moment of radiant iron will. All that’s left is the hot weight of my childhood choice, slowing my steps, turning my eyes downward. I feel sluggish, shackled inside my own skin.
“When will it be my turn?” I whisper. Staying on my feet takes everything I have now. The next step I take will be a torture, a fight endured rather than won. Cold seeps into my limbs as I wait in darkness for my reply.
“No one gets to know the answer to that before their due comes to them,” Love replies, vexing me with its pomposity.
“That’s not good enough!” My shout echoes in the alcove we stand within, shaking the architecture of my breast, knocking memories and emotions off of the walls to pile in a shamble on the floor. I hear the sound of ice cracking; something breaking in a place I cannot see. Fragments of my childhood lay like shattered glass around my feet. Each irregular panel replays the memory held within, a thousand damaged thoughts and images spinning and dancing. For an instant, I am overwhelmed by the cacophony.
With effort, I reach down for a familiar portrait, unbroken from the tumult, but badly weathered by age. The image within is faded, bleached of color, with the face framed in the picture resting out of focus. As I pause to stare into the portrait, its colors return to vibrancy. The face begins to speak, and I hear words grow in volume. I favor the accompanying remembrance with all of my attention, focusing for the instant required to silence the others as they return to their places on my walls.
A young woman with dark hair, who cannot meet my eyes. Her expression is uncertain, caught perfectly between exhaustion, sadness and frustration. There is an echo of hurt in this moment, a stabbing agony which, over time, has lost its poignancy. I hear my voice. “Do you even respect me anymore? Save the bullshit and just tell me how you feel.”
The woman doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look up before she answers. “I don’t know.”
I set the portrait on its shelf personally, sliding a thumb down the silver frame, admiring the gleam of metal under the coat of dust and neglect.
A hand on my shoulder draws my attention. Love stands behind me, matching me in appearance, but speaking in a voice that’s now not quite my own. It holds a newer memory up before me. “You keep this newer one with the one you just put back. I thought they should stay together.”
I take the recollection from him, savoring its texture and warmth in my hands.
Driving in the darkness, a young woman with dark hair sits beside me. There is a moment of silence before she speaks. “You know I love you, right?” Even looking into the memory after so long, my eyes still burn. Love, watching over my shoulder, smiles. “You know I love you too?” I hear my voice from the frame saying those words.
I set the portrait delicately on the mantle, slightly forward of the first. No dust or grime marks it, no faded colors bleed from the picture held frozen within.
“Take a look around for a minute Andy,” Love says, stepping back and gesturing at the room we share returned to order.
I give myself the time to do as asked, walking a winding circuit through the paths of my history, embracing the sensations of each memory as I pass. To my left, I glimpse a more recent memory, one in which I tell a woman whose energy and passion captivate me that she has my love, without obligation. “I’m not ready to say those words back yet,” her voice drifts to my ears. I smile, as I did first time. “You don’t have to,” I answer, continuing onward, appreciating the fire rekindling within my body. A few steps further, on the right, the memory of another woman—this one whose words and spirit touch my soul—catches my eye. She is watching the horizon with green eyes flecked with gold. We share no words in this frozen moment, but the emotion bound to this remembered day stops me in my tracks, asking me to savor their worth.
I continue onward like this for a time, losing myself in the halls and rooms of my reliquary. The noise of my life remembered within me grows in rhythm to the fire of my will. Eventually, I find myself once more before Love’s alcove. It rests on a dais now, well lit and smiling.
“There is your answer,” it tells me. “You wait for and demand me on your own terms. You see me as an enemy when you should not. Your promise was not wrong, but your expectations were parochial and greedy. And that is not how you should know me.”
I want to cry. I feel the tears returning, and put a hand over my eyes in shame. “Why am I so lonely all the time then?” I wanted to say that I understood Love’s meaning, that I felt its truth and accepted it without hesitation. But that question broke from my lips, giving itself voice, and I knew that that was my soul speaking in my place.
“You determine the value of the love you are given without wisdom. You have heard the words before, words spoken by others recognizing their love for you, felt their truth. To ask them to love you as you desire to be loved, that is to ask them not to love you truly. Suppose one of those women you said that you loved had, at any point, decided to love you as you asked, against the grain of their own natures. You would have felt that falsehood through me, and known greater hurt.”
“I feel broken.”
“You are confused and struggling with yourself. You pressure yourself too much, question your own motivations too often to trust your instincts, or me. Let go of trying to control the outcome Andrew. You love openly, and that is beautiful. You feel memories, rather than think about them. That is also beautiful. But, you retain bitterness despite all the good in your life. Your family, your job, your friends, your fortune in times of difficulty. Your soul companion in Florida, who walks beside you along the Path. You have accomplished every goal except one, and the time for that is coming.”
“What do I do?”
“Only trust me. Let me do the work. And, in the meantime…keep your promise, but live free of expectations from love.”
“You really are fickle and capricious.”
“I know.”
