A Brief Scrutiny of Love.
The expiry of one’s day usually means long, often dreaded, hours of mental recitations about the quality, stability, and comfortability of what has been experienced. Certainly, our familiar journey to sleep is assured to cause us to doubt the genuinity of our characters. Yet, there are nights where we don’t ponder the day we have had, but rather a future one, a day where we share the very same bed with someone who we perceive to be simply: the embodiment of perfection. Such an incident is not a cause of concern, but merely a symptom of what we like to call Love.
Where else would an invading alien find humans fascinating, passionate, tender, and candid as opposed to bloodthirsty, egocentric, and rapacious than in our tales of love? It’s one of the few conditions that stimulate our appreciation of one another, notwithstanding one’s race, faith or colour. In it, women are fancied beyond the physical allure, as in not being perceived as mere sexual vehicles in the eyes of men, and men are slightly more charming, as opposed to being utter disappointments in the eyes of women. Yet, it’s also in love that one’s view on life could be rendered melancholic and dreary, or, if the romantic association ceases catastrophically, it could be entirely fatal. Simply put, to love another is a curious thing.
Love, contrary to a commoner’s belief, is a robustly spontaneous and fortuitous spectacle that doesn’t adhere to any laws. It is an emotion that is seldom driven by choice, instead, it chooses for us. Pardon the subsequent daring hypothesis: I presume the majority of my readers, all fifteen of them, have dated, are dating, or are “shooting their shot” in the nearing days, and many of them will divulge to have had been performing a random task such as navigating their final few thoughts of the day before a night’s sleep, watching a striking scene from a movie, browsing the lines of a romantic novel, or even driving soundly during a tranquil night when suddenly their mind is hijacked by a chaotically adventitious image. Hundreds, if not thousands, of thoughts spilled across their consciousness mercilessly and ferociously. The moment is too overwhelming, but they can sense it, they are falling somewhere and are tormented by ambiguous illustrations of a face, one they wouldn’t otherwise ponder so critically. Finally, a boom! we, at last, realize it; we have fallen in love with a particular someone and suddenly, unbeknown to them, they are responsible for our radical moods, odd urges, and even book shopping. Many would contend that such a sentiment would necessitate a vaster timeframe to mature. However, since not even science has a claim on what the objective description of love is, an argument that it begins the moment our hearts skip a beat before the sight of a special someone, could be proposed and honestly defended.
The love story, or tragedy, often erupts when one, with absolute confidence, declares a stranger as a crush of theirs’s, and thereafter, an obsession is birthed to document all the particularities of the beloved; we begin to remark the glamour of their curly hair, get lost in their green eyes, memorize their catchphrases, and obsess over the way their hands shake as they burst into laughter. As soon as our mates learn of the revelation, they abandon their boring identities and transform into gifted couple-counselors. Eager to mesmerize us with strategic tactics and top-notch advice that would ensure us victorious in the forthcoming conquest of winning our crush’s heart. I respect my pals, but seldom would their wisdom earn my lips an intimate appointment with the pair of a lady. Instead, they would ensure me a long night attempting to convince, possibly the entire staff of a mental institution, that I am a sane citizen and shouldn’t be locked away. Luckily, usually succeeding a brutishly long journey of doubts, holdbacks, dramatic encounters, and uncountable sleepless nights, we at-last are given permission to hold our crushes’ hands and firmly, even loudly, say the magic words: I am falling in love with you.
Except that the enchanted phrase has been superseded by a senseless “I like you”. The notion behind the presence of such an alteration is a tedious one. Simply, we proclaim to be far from love and are thence merely experiencing romantic sensations of a lesser degree, henceforth, love is not the precise identifier to our feelings. The claim runs a critical fallacy: how is it possible for one to tell the difference? The usual responses involve upgrades in terms of comfortability, tendency to share, and other seemingly similar promotions that seem to indeed indicate a progressive emotion, hence the verb falling. To quantifiably assert the intensity of love is indeed a tricky endeavor. However, a careless “I love you” would even be less appreciated, consequently, we are ought to avoid magnifying, underselling, or even daring to measure our emotions. Instead, we should elect to stare embracingly into their eyes, and in a low, but vehement, voice, announce that we are falling for them, that they are a bit more than a date for the weekend, but also a bit less a life partner.
Yet, aside from the linguistic complication, there exist other threats. Traditionally, our pride is love’s first contender. For the romantic link to be securely established, we are forced to relinquish our sense of egotism and yearn for our lovers unburdened by the constant noises inside our minds. The custom is a rational one, it makes sense for our love lives to be naked of the disturbances that are majorly caused by our smugness and arrogance. Irrefutably, that is no easy feat, and it’s concurringly here where most of us are usually slaughtered by the shrewdest of our inner demons. Yet, pride is never the factual enemy; it’s instead our willingness to overcome it. Who of us is optimistic about letting another dictate the life they spent years building? Whom of us is ready to forfeit an adequate night's sleep, risk the goodness of their mood, and fear their feelings were misplaced should their partner forget to add “baby” in the simple text of “good night, baby.”? Thus, the recognition of love should motivate us to instead of futilely attempting to categorize its intensity, we should navigate our inner sturdiness, and check if we are even ready to love and be loved.
In essence, love demands far more than simply an acknowledgment of its presence. It asks us to trespass into the realms of our identity that we often leave locked. But the emotion is perhaps our strongest evidence, that in-spite of how torturing life can be, there is a possibility that someone out there is willing to confirm us, fix us and hopefully hold our hands in the dark.
By Mustafa M. Abuhamdeh.
Hey there! I'm Mustafa, the voice behind 'On Social Acceptance'. I appreciate you taking the time to read my post for this week, and I would love to connect with you to discuss the contents of this article, or anything else. You can find my preferred social media platform linked below.
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