Oh Boy. Lovers. A messy ingredient with such sweet and sour complexity. This is an ingredient to be used sparingly, always with careful measure. But alas, it almost never is because the elation that heats up the lovers' bodies quickly evaporates any condensation of logical sense that they may have once had. Yet, to the brand new lover, the sudden change of life motion brought about an overload of raw endorphins is nothing but an unplanned and unplotted detour (that even map quest cannot overcome) on the road through reality. To the lover, this new route is scenic, breathtaking. They don't see the world's edge up ahead, because they are blinded by the steamy hormonal onset of new "love." Dumbasses.
And haven't we all participated in our fair share of such absurdity? Aren't we all aware of that feeling of fluffy cloud-surfing that accompanies new lovers everywhere they go? And don't we also know - every single one of us - that the blood pumping through the veins of the new lover might as well be a Class A narcotic at the top of the DEA's list of dangerous and highly addictive drugs? Oh, yes. We all know what the field of roses looks like as we twirl and arabesque through it with our lover beside us, blushing and laughing as the sun shines so perfectly on his gleaming lips or her flowing hair. Sadly, so blinded are we by the toxic levels of temporary elation that we don't notice the thorns as they rip and tear at us, nor do we take note of the approaching storm clouds in the distance, just beyond the cliff's edge (that we also conveniently do not see). Even after we find ourselves laying cartoon-like at the bottom of the cliff with our hearts flattened by an anvil, we know deep down inside that we will seek out that blind elation again...just as soon as a blue and purple bird with a ridiculously exaggerated neck comes along and pumps our hearts back up to full capacity, we will be back on the hunt for another lover, like a junkie fresh out of "recovery" that only went to rehab in the first place because they were forced into it by the cruel intervention of reality.
Please do not misunderstand. I don't mean to imply that every love affair is doomed to crushing, life-altering failure. Of course, neither am I using the word or concept of "lovers" to be synonymous with Love, itself. While Love has within it the tantalizing aroma of the lover, the lover does not necessarily -rarely, in fact- get to hold Love in her clumsy hands. To tell the tale any other way would be a chapter out of a fool's book, and anyone that says otherwise is likely a practicing lover in this moment, OR he had a part in the publishing of said book, no doubt insisting on entitling it something that insinuates orgasmic promises of "true love." Something like: "Finding Your Soul-Mate in Five Minutes or Less for Dummies...and Also, Excellent Rhubarb Pie Recipes." But, I digress. Or do I? No. No, I don't think so; in fact, I think it's of utmost importance to distinguish the beauty and longevity of Love from the theatrical dumb-assery that always wants the lead part with the longest and loudest monologue from the Lovers' Script.
Love is a truth that some lovers might have the strength to survive when the picturesque sunny and breezy days of flower-hopping suddenly turn to cold, still nights of wading through one another's deepest swamp water of imperfections, fears, and ugly habits; and even still, each one maintains the ability to see the promise of fertile land lying beyond the dilapidated slats that fence in and limit the other's self-growth and potential. When one person is willing to part with bits of her own building materials for no other reason than to extend the perimeter of happiness for someone else...that is Love. And eventually, Love requires but a single gate to a single shared spread of frolic-worthy property (the value of which not even this economy could diminish), and though the swamplands may remain in parts, they are accepted with compassion - even if not fully understood. And as the years pass, Love has a miraculous way of drying up the murky waters altogether.
So, though the world -and this very blog- may mock those who fondle life and each other under the influence of loverdome, the truth is that Love springs from the Lover, and through all the trickery and inertia of pheromones, there is always the chance that Love, real Love, is awaiting us at the edge of the lovers' reality. And ultimately, just the mere possibility of discovering Love and letting it transform us is worth every fall we might have to take to find it. We might display drooling stupidity in our eager search for Love, but when (and if) the search ends and we find that we have found the holy grail of humanity, we will recognize it not by the flow of passion and alluring mystery; rather we will know it, beyond doubt, by the willing exertion of the courage and selflessness it takes to keep it.
