Reflections: Because Why Not

Love is a mysterious and powerful thing; that's probably why so much literature, music, why so many movies which concern themselves with it. Mysterious, we say, because one day it is present, and drives us to undertake Olympian deeds where no impetus existed before (and this is its power), and the next it is gone, leaving us puzzled amid the effects of our labour, the instrument of their creation having vanished. What is accomplished by love now seems alien in its absence, and one is driven to wonder just what it was that fired his heart in the first place. Spurs applied to the memory are no help - the photograph tells a story no longer true; the letter seems cold and calculating, where once it had seemed innocent and charming; the gift appears a debt that needs paying; the promise, obviously broken, if ever made in good faith.

Distressing, perhaps, but love's mystery is also cause for good cheer: it has come and gone, but it will come again. Absence of love provides its own impetus, a new kind of fire, which smoulders rather than rages, a slow burn of determination. Every setback, every obstacle is material for this flame; nothing can extinguish it, and through the harshest solitary winters one remains content.

These are trite sentiments, but human nonetheless.