What kind of love is this?
A kind that never needs to speak of itself, for it is neither proper nor necessary for a feeling, in society, to narrate its own existence—much like one does not explain sarcasm or certain double entendres. It simply is. What more could be added? A medal? A fanfare?
What else should love do, other than lie quietly by your side, until, over time, the closeness itself becomes a source of irritation—like the prick of our favorite wool sweater?
There are priorities, so to speak, existential matters; administrative concerns in the management of life, for those who truly feel the weight of responsibility, which end up taking precedence even when initially one thought it better not to. There are so many things to think about, to organize… and only one life to live.
Yet, there would never be enough time to bask in the summer sun or to brood under a blanket in winter. There would never be enough time to cultivate every talent that the freedom of a mature, disenchanted love might allow one to rediscover within oneself—talents one would be careful not to impose on the beloved.
The love of scheduled dates, of exclusive moments forced upon oneself, would be a pitiful dam against the sudden floods of every physiological individual need.
There is not enough time, in mature and disenchanted love, for the natural demands of the individual. If there were time, it would never be the right moment for those who know the difference. If there were the moment, the opportunity might be lacking.
It would be sad to settle, when the desire for spontaneity burns so vividly, for the sake of duty.
If spontaneity existed, it would be inappropriate, hypothetically… and in any case, there would be no time… perhaps, the need for duty would not even be felt.
If duty alone were enough, there would be no need for love.
Some things hold true only temporarily, while one is young. Then, when youth fades, there is no longer any need to reduce everything to biology.
It is true, there are individuals who place every primal impulse from their gut, every uncontrollable instinct, above even the well-being of their own offspring. These are the ones often spoken of; some have written about themselves, some have held important roles of power. But there are also people who, given the chance to act as thieves, would no longer know what to do with it, even if unpunished, pardoned, or forgiven.
There are needs that certain people do not have, and people who, even if once they had needs, are now content as they are.
It would be far too much for me to underline the obviousness of unspoken feelings, of jealousy for every moment devoted to something else.
Or, perhaps, love does not exist at all, and the meaning of all this is only what we manage to convince ourselves to believe—like we believe in the Epiphany witch or in God, like we trust that parents are fair and care for their children even when they do not want to, and that children love them even when they hate them.
Or perhaps, the love of promises kept, of bets won, of plans realized, is not the love that interests us; and, surrendered to illusion, defeated by the profound beauty of an unattainable truth, we prefer never to know exactly what fruits will sprout after so much sowing—recognizing ourselves in the unspoiled purity of prospects, in the potential evanescence of an idea, rather than in a small step, even symbolic, albeit taken in the wrong direction, but truly walked.
Unless this is indeed the ultimate, noblest, and most tragic meaning of loving one another:
To dedicate oneself, to lose oneself, to sacrifice—and, in the end, to die.
Very well.