The perfect love is often described, and it seems to encompass a sort of stability and compatibility that could form a bond that could last forever.
But the most ardent of feelings arises not from that stability and regularity but from flashes of fervor that occur unexpectedly or even “against the rules.” That is what makes for interesting love stories, and also what I think is an essential part of any relationship where the participants need some sort of spontaneity to thrive.
Love can be told to exist, and then it will, but it won’t be the same as its fickle, whimsical sibling, the passion that can pop up from just one little glistening facet or a song or a left message. Like an elusive aria, you can hear it, sung far in the distance by a child-like spirit, and you want to pursue it and uncover it. But then it’s gone, too, and you’re not sure what you’re left with but the memory of the chase.
Childhood is the transcendental bliss; a child has wings, a child can love, a child can sing freely.
Adulthood is a muted travesty, clipped wings dripping blood on the floor; attempts at transcendentalism through alcoholism, and wretched shouts of adoration that are only pre-planned attempts at manipulation; and songs that are only for the money.
I can only love a child-like spirit, a natural spirit, a person who hasn’t sold the soul to the devil of adult amorality and greed.
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