Once in a very long while in our lives we are consumed, overwhelmed and overcome by this rare sense of indescribable affinity towards another person despite being constantly marooned by our uniquely intimate zenosyne, that time moves too fast outside our domain of control that there’s little or no time left to test our romantic proposition. We refrain from divulging the whole “secret” of our tormenting clandestine wajd (وجود), ecstasy of being in love with someone, to other people not even to those people we consider our best friends for we are afraid that they might be victims of exulansis, that they might be unable to intimately relate to our confessional stories and “unique” experience.
We only give them fragments, shards of the things we think are our commonalities and are convinced are safe to say so. And when time goes by and we have failed to attend to our affective needs (either a feeling of what the Arabs calls hawa (هاواي), a “longing” or “desire” to be with our crushes though we keep the temptation to ourselves or when we are tested by our basorexia, our strong craving or hunger for kissing them for they have given us that moment of exquisite flashover, a moment when our conversations were seasoned by the spices of trust, openness and genuine camaraderie.
Some other ominous day we suddenly feel butterflies in our stomach, that our passionate longing for that special person’s company is just an act of folly and self-deception, guilt and shame that better be left unspoken of. We make an obstinate decision, that our objét trouves is not for us while simultaneously trying to reconcile what the Chinese call Yu Yi, our desire to feel those unrepeatable moments of experiencing intense “wholeness” and methodological madness in an inconsiderately reckless and pathetic manner. Time flies and we feel we have been cured of this possessive “ailment” though this futile conviction is made to no avail. It is a Sisyphean toil, for we will never be able to contain its unexpected incursions unless and otherwise we have completely lost our emotional faculties in an insufferably terrible accident.
After repeated attempts of trying to break this enchantress’ inescapable curse, we succumb to avoir, we strongly crave that our memories flow backward thereby enabling us to navigate back to our last moment of spectacular ecstasy only we “the lovers” could experience. Perhaps it might be the case that we are doomed to be bound to this vicious cycle of ecstasy, shame, guilt and defensiveness. Perhaps we are somehow painfully trying to articulate our avoidance of our loved ones through our nihilist altschmerz, a weariness with the same old issues of life we’ve always had, which leaves our deep feelings for our unaware loved ones soggy, inert and tasteless. Be that as it may, our inability to comprehend the true nature of our most intimate feelings through reasoning by itself leaves us bewildered. For we are constantly though authoritatively reminded on a daily basis that, we are to feel love or being loved in lieu of “philosophically” incising through our past, present and future escapades, be they imaginary or real.
And in an age primarily characterized by a ubiquitous culture of dating – on- or offline – where we could be served with a smorgasbord of love without the FALL, this act seems ridiculous. Yet the pain of losing someone we passionately love, most often by the caprice of our superego inversions remains here with us a very long time inflicting at times an unrecoverable and utterly excruciating pain. The French semiotician Roland Barthes, referring to this after-loss lamentation, wrote in his interesting treatise “A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments”:
“Isn’t the most sensitive point of this mourning the fact that I must lose a language — the amorous language? No more ‘I love you’s.”
To conclude, even though there still remains the need to reform the notion of love on several accounts as the contemporary Croatian “Sufi” philosopher, Srećko Horvat argues in his recent magnum opus on the subject, “The Radicality of Love” in which he discusses at length the coming of a winter of love, where people are nothing more than “fucking bodies” obsessed with more sex and less or no fall in love or else involvement in any romantic affairs in the classical sense of the term where commodification of the human body and emotion is an exigency, it is also imperative that we heed to what the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca has to say in his “Blood Wedding and Yerma”:
“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.”
In his 10 July 2015 interview with Creston Davis of Roar Magazine Horvat has echoed the need for the return of classical love, to which I also completely agree and why he composed such a “dangerous” book on the subject of love:
Why love? Because it is in our contemporary “selfie” pandemic that people lost the capability to see another person, to relate to another being, and vice versa, to relate to themselves meaningfully through the other person. Why a book about love? Because it is love that is missing today, not sex. People are more and more in fear of falling in love. This is one of the reasons why, beside phenomenon such as the Kyoto “solo-wedding”, we recently have a new word called “masturdating”.
So, in such a way, though unenticing, uncanny and shallow, I declare that we embrace the fall as part of the totality called love, that we should not be ashamed to admit to the fact we have felt it, we should not under any circumstances shy away from courageously divulging our “embarrassing” secret feelings to our loved ones for the after-loss remorse outweighs the supposedly disconcerting fear of declaring our love and most importantly, we should not refrain from putting our romantic experiences under a philosophical microscope once in a while for the lessons drawn from these hindsight reflections could help ready us to valiantly embark on a journey in search of more love, that is sweet and painful which of course is nourishing in the end and could spare us from the undesirable consequences that might unexpectedly befall us. Doing so helps much in experiencing more romance, without spoiling its delicate taste and spares us from being spoiled by its whimsical volatility that severely corrupts our affective capacity to experience love in the purest and most whole way possible.