blog, Pat Aitcheson writes

Is love ever a mistake?

better to hope than to love

rose petal red_malubeng
malubeng via pixabay

Love. It’s the greatest good we have as humans. Most of us chase it all our lives, and sometimes even find it. But in the nature of these things, finding and keeping is not the same thing. I wrote elsewhere about different kinds of love, but romantic love is the one the songs, films and books mostly hold up as the ultimate.

We say love is forever and yet we know it is not. We enter into contracts and exchange rings that symbolise an unending circle. And we quietly build exits and escape clauses.

We hope and pray that love will last, but objectively everything that has a beginning has an end, as The Matrix Revolutions had it. It was a remark by Jake Lira of @thecreative.cafe that got me wondering about the wrong turns and detours we make in search of The One. He asked: is love ever a mistake?

Perhaps there are no mistakes, only progress we can’t see at the time.

Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.
Søren Kierkegaard

If we look at life this way, it gives us some hope. When things seem to be going wrong, we are simply taking an unexpected turn on the road of life. Those footprints cannot be erased anyway. We can’t deny our past; we can only make peace with it.

With this in mind, we are able to look back at past experiences and take what can be learned from them. Some loves are like flowers; beautiful and doomed, and all the more precious because they are ephemeral. What we should treasure is not this idea of romantic love, in whichever way we live it, but the capacity to feel love not once, but many times.

As long as we are able to try again, the possibility of grasping love remains. And the emotion that keeps us going in its absence is hope.

Hope. It is the quintessential human delusion, simultaneously the source of your greatest strength, and your greatest weakness.
The Architect, The Matrix Reloaded (2003) The Wachowskis

As Pandora found, when all is lost, hope is the tiny flame that lights the darkness. And the deeper the dark, the brighter it shines.

blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

Grey

#3 in the colour series

dandelion_wreco
wreco via pixabay

 

It is the time of sleep and not-sleep

but warm, always.

It is the time of seen and not-seen

soft focus, blurred.

It is the time of dream and not-dream

yet absolutely real.

It is the place mapped and not-mapped

each hill and curve already known.

 

These are not adventures, and here be no dragons.

We know this gentle push and pull

caressing the edge of darkness

teasing the frontiers of rest.

The familiar needs no more.

Soft half-light reveals us to each other again

veiled in a gossamer web of sighs.

It is that time.

blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

Pink

poem #1 from the colour series

pink lily petals flower
webdesignerbr via pixabay

 

As pink shades to red, so the tightly furled bud swells and becomes more of itself. Forever growing more alluring, velvet petals invite a touch, sensuous perfume beguiles the nose. Scent blown on a lover’s breath cascades down inmost folds, finally drowning in a gentle waterfall.

Carried over the edge into tempestuous torrents, blooming, opening wider and more, into enthralling depths of sweetness. Yes, sighs and gasps and the music of the spheres, all is here, tasting of honey, pulsing with life and heat, ripe and heavy.

Red deepens to imperial purples, blue of night, midnight indigo and sparkling starred ebony. It matures but does not end, fading once more purple, red, pink, sleepy pale at last it rests.