What We Talk About When We Talk About Love

 Life, it is a petty thing. Can't ever figure it out, but the older I get the more I realise that we aren't really supposed to be figuring it out. I mean, the point of life is the search, right? Because once you find it, what next? What else are we supposed to do once we figure that out? More money? More happiness? More love? More peace? What's the point of it all when life loses all its luster? All we have is now, and most of us spend most of our lives running from this exact feeling. Planning for the future, crying over the past, ignoring the present, disassociating with the now to make way for something that isn't even here yet, and might never be here ever. But the thing is, life is only as meaningful as you fool yourself into thinking it is. Government, society, justice, morality, friendship, faith, religion, monogamy are just socially accepted delusions that we impose on reality to try and establish some control over our lives, but the truth is eventually, we all end up ashes or six feet under. And it is the way of things, has been for ages and doesn't seem to be changing anytime soon. Not sure if I wanna live forever either. Because these delusions are meant to last a lifetime and can only last as long. The longer we live, the less meaning we can argue our lives have. As I sit here, in the comfort of my place, listening to one direction, figuring out the next part of my life, I am overcome by the oddest sensation. The thespian who played me is slowly being replaced by a better, older, wiser (hopefully), more experienced actor to carry on the role and make it an immortal performance, one to remember. However, he does wonder if he'll be able to carry the weight of an entire soul. Lucky for both of us, it is merely a part of the soul, for soul doesn't regenerate over time and eventually, when it's completely exhausted, we meet our demise. A drunkard, loving husband and father taught me that love is what you need to live. And eventually when that flame extinguished in his heart, he practically threw his life away because nothing else made sense anymore to him. The chances of me being much better than him are decent, but I may end up just like him. I hope for the former but fear the latter. As Raymond Carver said in the closing lines of the title story What We Talk About When We Talk about Love, "I could hear my heart beating, I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making. Not one of us moved. Not even when the room went dark." And I think that's what writing is about. It's about hearing that heart beating, and deciphering it to the best of our abilities... Salud!