What then is Life if not Love?

5 min read

 

In our macrocosm of entropy which is an apparent labyrinthine nature of the collection of randomness and confusion, lies the conception of Time. Nothing matters to Time, but accepting vanquish as it is, Time exists for us (except a few followers of the Einsteinian thought of relativity), in all its measurable and observable form. Time is recognized by our consciousness in its psychological aspect- flow. The next, the boundless three-dimensional extent in which objects and events have relative positions and direction makes space.
Enter, us.

Humans might as well be one of the most researched and worked upon species in our Universe for we are curious beings and we always, always want to know, even more so about ourselves. Our curiosity cannot be scaled to a mere range given by any scientist, whosoever. In this gigantic mesh of energy, we are but one of the littlest entities, a result of an ordered chaos. Humans work strangely, how peculiar us beings are: All of us, widely exclusive in nature and yet, so similarly full of life. When trying to understand each human distinctly and comparing one with another, a series of distinctions is expected to emerge. But we do have similarities too, don’t we? Don’t we share an affinity with anything?
In my mind, we do. With pretence; to me all of us are or have been pretenders in a form or another, we all walk through life taking up a role, pretending to be in full synchronicity and we do so with jazz.
We pretend to be fun; we pretend that we like, we pretend that we enjoy, we pretend that we love.
When ice thaws with changes in the temperature where it is kept, water forms. In a similar fashion, we shift our roles as we are subjected to different times and in different spaces. All of us are in the phase of pretending or have come out of it, but we have experienced it, nevertheless. Time may be limitless but humans have a finite relationship with it. And if this relationship is based on the act of pretence, this relationship is only gradually dissolving.
In my short life, I have played the role of a pretender for a very long time, for almost as long as I have been. I have seen myself make shifts as if from one paradigm to another, experiencing heart-wrenching leaps and I have been unable to stop myself. But I have also been a lover, and love is another abstract aspect that we have in common. And love is what saves us from pretence. More case-specifically, love is what saved ME from pretence. In a world where nothing really matters in the end, where nothing is ever fully known and nothing is ever widely shared and made understood, everything is but a perception, and in this realm of reality, amongst and in the midst of all the slightly ordered sets and blows of energies, and nothing more, we have the ability to know and to feel, fortunately enough.

Time, in its unilineal form moves only forward and the existence of the past lies essentially in our memories and recorded events. What are memories but filtered and adulterated awareness? I have a handful of memories I can call my own and a greater portion of the existing memories are, I think, conjured up by me to make my life more interesting and more real.
What is the past then? A place created by the mixture of real events we remember and most others we fabricate? Perhaps.
The evolving universe and with it, the growth of new intellectual events, occurs in the passage of time, in space. To feel as deeply as one does and to revel in love as in art is an aspect of beauty that human life depends upon. To love, to have grown in love, to have been broken and drowned in love, is but what keeps us in sync with the present and with a realisation of our existence. Every one of us is a lover and a believer, is what I like to believe in. A lovely phantasm I have created for myself. Maybe it is true.

The differences among humans have always intrigued thinkers, philosophers, and scientists alike. This tradition of interest may very well be the driving force of a person’s actions.
Maybe we do things because we are aware of our capabilities and maybe because we aren’t.
All we do is we try. We test ourselves in the larger context of the world and we do so to give ourselves a rank in an imaginary scale that runs the world, a non-existent scale that stands sturdier than any palpable monument, whatsoever. Sandwiched constantly between regard and oversight, consciousness and apathy, confusion and clarity, we are but a composite of antonyms and striking paradoxes. Why do we hurt? Because we allow ourselves to be hurt. And as one may believe in a certain hypothesis, one may also not. In this constant push we give ourselves, sometimes we forget to stand still, sit down, take a breather, look around and appreciate. We forget to love. There is almost nothing that we remember, but there is a whole array of possible things we could have done that we forget. In this complexity that we create for ourselves, we forget that love saves us, that love is the answer. As is pretty obvious a case with most of us, I think we are born with inherent capabilities to conquer the system of oppression and manifest in us the strength to restrain whatever is to come forth us, to face climaxes and meet with unexpected riots of the heart, ever so slightly collecting concern and seasoning ourselves towards the attempt. When one loves, oneself and another, doesn’t one realise these capabilities?

Love is not the great romance we have been exposed to since forever, nothing extravagant, nothing apparently large. Love is simple, it is in the intricacies of life, the little things we do to save ourselves, the things we do to give our perception a direction, the things we do to give this valueless life some moments of fulfillment, some moments of living.

Human beings, through times immemorial have been collecting pieces of not just art and aesthetics but also of Time and Space itself, of knowledge. The aspect of time flow may be delusive but it can be given the benefit of the doubt that the nature of change experienced by one and all is an activating enterprise, since it involves not only the experiences of people, but also the representation of persistence through change.

All events, however, exist as a collection of moments that just passed in time, a pointless present, nevertheless momentous in effect. However, even in such slipping away moments, the human brain has developed just enough consciousness to “keep” time. Every human can be given credit for storing a piece of information, an emotion, a feeling, an idea, an occupation, upon whose death the piece of information is forever gone, the emotion is not driven and the feeling not felt, an idea perhaps would never have been born and an occupation never tended. But as is inevitable, we all are to end this finite relationship with Time and I hope for us all to do so in love, for what is done in love shall always end in love. No playing pretend, only loving.

What then is life if not love?

Your thoughts?