Love is a topic that no man wants to talk about. At least not in this toxically masculine environment. And while that’s what I’m exploring here, allow me to start on the complete opposite end of the spectrum - hate. The Harry Potter series of books were some of the first novels I read. I was in class six or seven, and one of the girls on the school van had gotten a couple of the books in the series as a present or something. I remember reading the Deathly Hallows (I know, how did I start at the end?), and all of a sudden become obsessed with the franchise. And if you know anything about Harry Potter, you know about Lord Voldemort. One of the interesting things about his character revolves around him creating horcruxes. These are pieces of his soul that attach to items of his choice - well, mostly items of his choice if you know the story - whenever he kills someone. And the aim is to keep those items - essentially fragments of his soul - safe. In doing so, even if one part of him dies, they can use one of the created fragments to bring him back. This essentially made him immortal. But while this process - lets call it the ‘soul tie’ - involved hate and/or death, I think it also forms the basis of love. Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. And I think, in the same way that Lord Voldemort uses these soul ties to ensure his survival - or at least longevity - is the same way soul ties related to love work. Its a way of ensuring our continued survival, in one form or another. Its a negotiation with death.
Like a Slap In The Face
The beautiful thing about love - the unconditional type - is that at its core, it involves death. It means giving out a part of your soul to the other person. And the thing about it is that once you do, that part never comes back to you. You have ripped it from yourself, and the only way to replace the emptiness that remains is for the other person to take a part of their soul and give it to you. A piece for a piece. A fair trade. Its a willingness to give a part of yourself to someone else, hoping that they are willing to give a part of themselves you. Hoping. That takes a lot of courage. A courage not a lot of people have. Because there’s no assurance that the trade is fair. You might receive a piece that doesn’t fit. Or one that’s smaller than what you gave. Or nothing at all, leaving a continuously empty feeling. A feeling I can only relate to death - losing someone you love, whether that be someone else, or yourself.
The Little Homies
Giving out a part of ourselves to someone means that we can continuously live in them. We get to see ourselves through their eyes. The good and the bad. But at its core, it involves us being seen. Being felt. Being thought of. Whether we are there or not. Whether we are alive or dead. For those of us who’ve been around recent mothers and fathers, you can attest to seeing this first hand. There’s something that changes in a couple once a child is in the picture (those couples responsible enough; some people should never be parents). There’s a subtle but incredibly profound change to a new mom. Its in the way she carries herself. I think in that moment, she realizes that her life is not hers anymore. It belongs to that small human in her hands. Everything she does from there on is centered around her child. Everything else takes a back seat. And most times, that includes the father too (she can only hope he understands). A recent mother has this distant look in her eyes. She don’t feel entirely present or whole so long as her child is not with her. She given a part of her soul to her child. And the child gives a part of his/her soul to her. Maybe that explains the intense feeling when a mother loses her child. And when a child loses their parent. The part of our soul that we gave them dies with them.
The same can be said of the dad. A guy’s demeanor changes when he has a kid (again, assume him responsible). This is especially true to dads with girls. Previously ‘hard’ guys turn into softies. Previously carefree men turn into calculating maniacs. Asshole and narcissists can be incredibly cruel to everyone else. Find them with their kids and you’ll wonder where the asshole went. Why sacrifice yourself for something so fragile in the early years? Something that could so easily be taken away from you? For something that could so easily get out of your control in the later years - the freaking teens for example. Why pour yourself out to someone who won’t be able to pour themselves in the same way to you ever? Maybe because a part of you will remain alive in that little homie, even when your gone. They will always call you, never by your name, but by what you represent to them. Mom. Dad. Both names that signify safety. Reliability. And your hope is that they continue whatever legacy you’ve instilled in them, all while charting a path of their own in this cruel, fucking world. And in doing so, they ensure your immortality.
My Eyes Don’t Shed Tears, They Pour
That’s what’s scary about love for me. At its core, its death, the only thing certain in this world. But the thing is - for me at least - nothing is worth doing if you can’t lose yourself to it. Maybe that says something unhealthy about me. But that’s how I do stuff. And the only things in my life that have been worth doing are those that I completely lost myself in. Because it meant that I was giving it my all, however short it lasted. It has to be unconditional. If its not, then it isn’t worth doing, is it? See I’m a hopeless romantic. And that means that I jump in with both feet. But not everyone’s like that. And that means that nine out of ten times, it has been nothing but pain. Nothing. But. Pain. Because it means that you gave a part of your soul, and you received nothing in return. That leaves some emptiness. And every time you do it, the emptiness grows, And that emptiness takes its toll over time. You become careful about going through that experience - that pain - again. You try to mold yourself into something different, in a effort to protect yourself. You try to become something you’re not. And it works for a while. Until, inevitably, you meet someone, and you’re like ‘Fuck. I’ve only known a straight line. That is until I met you.’