The Paradox of Love

Amongst the indefinable, Love prevails. It is a monstrosity of the senses that has been left untended to long enough to become our mover. Budding from its primitive necessity for existence and blooming into a contrived ideal, it has morphed into an inherent, defining quality that knows no prejudice in choosing its fools. Fools, because Love is a manipulator dressed in white robes.

The altruism Love has been associated with is limited by the Ego of the beholder. Would Love still hold true to its concept when we become deprived of companionship in a union? How well will we hold when our altruism is put to the test in the face of the possibility of losing a treasured union?

Manifesting itself as Desire, Love first feeds us a spoonful of dreams. It gives us a glimpse of a parallel universe, in which that which is desired is possible. Then, Love imprints this possibility and makes us wish. It flicks a switch in us, throwing our reality into darkness as we ogle at the brilliance of the dreamy promise.

Love spins this longing into an intricate web of wanting. It makes us relinquish our ideals and chase after a fantastical notion. The caprice goes unnoticed, paving the way for yearning. Here is where Love gets a strong foothold on our essence. We begin to thirst for our fantasy to merge with reality. We cling onto any semblance of hope and obsess over it.

All of this for a selfish gain: security, comfort, pleasure, companionship. Upon the attainment of these, Love suggests attachment, to glue us to our trophy. The contentment, wellbeing and security of our new union become essential to our own. For a split second, Love looks saintly. We marvel at what we would do in the name of Love. We feel wholesome. We pride ourselves with sacrifices and initiatives; we feel saintly.

Alas, it is short-lived.

Humans are plagued with Ego, a curse of self-importance. With the advent of Love, the Ego is exalted. We strive to make that which interests us ours, we aim to own and share in the delights of our fantastical dreams. Upon unification, the Ego is rewarded. We feel complete, having procured what we want. Now, we cling. We surrender.

But nothing lasts. Should the union threaten to crumble, our Ego cringes. It wobbles on its footing. It has become so accustomed to the safety and comfort of the fellowship that the idea of severing the tie sends shivers down its spine. Ego hardens our position and makes us obstinate.

A discord results, between the self and the union - a husband refusing to pull the wire at the death bed of his dying wife, a woman fervently trying to make amends to keep her lover despite his will, a mother desperately convincing her son against joining the army. Our need for companionship outweighs all else.

This is the plight of Love: to comfort or be comforted, when the sincerity of Love is challenged. It begins to quiver on its facade; its show of altruism is revealed to be nothing but a deceit of the senses when the egoist puppeteer pulls off his mask.

The altruist would not hesitate between her desires and that of another, but the egoist would. Love is nothing but an ambitious, overzealous embodiment of Ego. Love is nothing but a brilliantly executed performance, a sleight of hand. Love is nothing but a façade, a manipulator dressed in white robes and a wreath.