Love: Second Ed

Why blog?

That was the first thing that came into my mind as I loaded this screen. But I sat back, thought about it, and decided to go ahead. My reason? None. I have no compelling reason to blog, but neither do I have any compelling reason not to. So I heaved a great sigh, leant forward and let my fingers do the walking. (Sorry, I don't usually use cliches, but I needed something to end this prologue.)

I was eating dinner with my mother, the two of us alone in this four-member family, as usual. Not that there's any estrangement (not much, anyway), but my father works night-shift, and my sister don't come home until 8. (Or if she does come home early, she don't eat with us. I said not much estrangement, not no estrangement.) Back to the point, I was eating dinner with her, and we bantered with her taking the usual vanguard.

"Eat mee, (as in noodles) later get hungry ah! Want to eat some of mine?"

I kicked into my usual mimic-my-mom-to-irritate-her mode, and replied, "Eat rice, later get hungry ah! Want to eat some of mine?"

The battle went on, with me reversing all her logic and attacking her with that messed-up intellect. Spoons were meant to be eaten. Food was meant to be thrown away. Tables were meant to sit on us. Spoilt food tasted the best. Cooked food was for dogs. Noodles were filling, rice were not. In addition, since we went through this banter all the time, I judged when she'd be likely to use her trademark phrases and used them in a mimicky high voice right before she was going to. For the first time in my years of banter, I finally managed to pull of the stunt of repeating her whole repetoire at her without a single mistake!

The end was a precedent. My mother was flabbergasted. For the first time, I had pulled off all her tricks before she could. Left defenseless, she took refuge in laughter. Both of us took pride in my accomplishment. There was a time, long ago, when I was foiled at every turn by her tricks. Her wit was sharp and direct, with no mercy for the unprepared, and her tongue hard enough to flay the skin from rocks. I used to be hung upside down by my little toe, and hung out to dry with my flayed skin next to me everytime I engaged her in battle. But now, I hardly find our spars a challenge at all.

Whether it be because of her aging or my young incompetence, I guess I'll never find out.

But more importantly than all that, I managed to, in the midst of it all, pull of my secondary intent. The bowl she had taken from her stores with intent to keep some of her dinner for god-knows-who lay by the table-side, out of her reach, where I left it. Its depths were empty. She always urged people to eat more, heaping her own food on theirs while touching little herself, insisting it was more than enough for her. She never ate a full bowl, or even a half bowl, of rice at dinner, while my plate is usually half-covered with rice. Only when we ate out, or packaged something home, did she eat anything resembling a real meal for dinner.

And most of the times we packaged home, she always set aside some of her food, claiming she could not finish it all. This one night, I managed to keep that bowl out of reach. Suprisingly, she made no move to reclaim her balked intent. We ate dinner in silence, me with abit of the glow of triumph on my features. I knew my victory was not all it seemed. By no means was she going to stop leaving some of her food uneaten. She'd just put it in the bowl after I'd left. But, if luck is with me, she'd misjudge and eat more than she intended to.

And then, my victory would be complete.

I'm not an ambitious man. I know something I can't change when I see it. But I can wheedle what little advantage is left me even with a hopeless situation. I felt fully elated.

Until I remembered that my mother was 30 years older than me, with all that experience behind her. The implications came crashing down on me. She would know of my plan. Her counter-measures would assuredly involve keeping a strict eye on her intake, and purposely eating less than what her eye tells her, just in case she misjudged. True enough, by the time I was finished, she had still a veritable amount of food left. She was keeping a very very cautious eye on her intake indeed. Without a doubt, when I left the table, she'd grab the bowl and fill it to any amount she intended in the first place.

I left, feeling the void of defeat, but not making outcry. Like I said, I know something I cannot change when I see it. My love for my mother remains unchanged, despite all her wit.

And at last, after that first bunch of meaningless words, I've finally come to the crux. Today's events have led me to revise my verdict (if I may be arrogant enough to assume so) of the concept of "Love". I have come to see that "Love" is not only synonymous with "Hate" (refer back several entries, that is, if it is still around), but also synonymous with "Pain".

Why pain?

No, I'm not talking about that headache you have right now. I mean the kind of pain you feel at the base of what feels like your heart. Not throbbing, wave after wave kind of pain. But the slow ache that builds up, piling pressure on your face and making you feel downright miserable. Your cheeks will feel hot, and your eyes very dry. Your tongue will tremble (its true, I'm not joking) and you'll have trouble breathing, as the pressure acts not only at where your heart is, but also at your lungs area. You feel constricted, like you're claustrophobic. Your hands feel week, bereft of strength, and trembles when you raise them above heart level.

No, I'm not talking about a heart attack either, though the signs and symptoms are similar. An emotional ache is, theoretically, similar to a heart attack. You dam up your feelings like the fats dam up your blood in the blood vessels. It feels like its going to explode any moment. And I'm not sure it won't.

What has this got to do with "Love"? What has it got to do with taking and giving? What has it got to do with giving unconditionally to your "loved" ones, or taking with intent to harm from your "hated" ones? What has it got to do with anything at all?

Simple: The main cause, the main perpetuator, the main culprit, the main virus.. whatever, of the ache I described, is "Love". Or "Hate", for that matter. Both ways always lead to the same thing: Pain.

I've read 16 love stories today, ranging the gamut from poems to prose, from an 18 page novel-like story to a 5-liner, from fantasy-style war to tragic illness, from love of a young couple to love for a father. Not one, not even in the one where there was a happy ending with the couple in question snuggling warmly into each other's arms forever, where I did not feel the ache. Correction: there were 2 or 3 where I did not feel the ache. Those so riddled with grammar errors that I felt pain for the mauled language. But I digress.

You say, love is not ALL painful. You say, the reason why those stories made me feel pain was because they were all written by angsty teenagers on a topic they have not truly comprehended yet. You say, love is actually a wonderful, soaring feeling. You say, love is actually sweeter the longer it is.

Then explain, if you can, the ache that afflicts me right now.

Pain inflicted by a seventeen-year-old love, with my predictions of it not lightening in the near future, but increasing in the far future. Pain inflicted from watching my mother and father age. Pain from looking at my friends and their deluded, selfish, useless and ultimately, self-destructive "LOVE".

Don't ever doubt my words. All love ends in pain. All hatreds too, since Love and Hate are one and the same.

Give me a single example of someone NOT feeling sad when his LOVED one passes away. I'm not talking about material ties like parenthood. You can watch your father die and not feel pain, but only if you did not love him, and did not hate him. Only when you view him as a number, not even as a stranger, can you watch him die and not feel pain. And if you die first? You won't feel the pain of parting, surely, since you're dead. Your last memory may be a blissful sight of your loved one. But what about that loved one left? Do you think that your parents will not cry all the more harder if you die first?

How can you even think that pain would be non-existent if you die before your loved ones do? You're being selfish, that way. You're thinking of pain for yourself, and not giving a damn to the pain your loved ones feel when you die. What if you and your loved ones die together? Would there be no pain?

No! Spare a thought for those compassionate people, who love those who they have not yet met! Even if ALL of those people whom you love die together with you, those people whom you never knew existed, who never knew you existed, all grief for you when they hear. Their pain is no less intense for the fact that they do not drop tears. Their pain is no less real for the fact that they forget your existence within a day or two! If humankind did not love, did not hate, then neither would they feel pain. Only when you're hailed as truly inhuman, when you are truly alone, when you truly love nor hate no one, when truly, no one, no thing, not even a single blade of grass holds your love or hate, only then, will you feel no pain.

Only when you're not human.

No matter how callous you think you are, no matter how harried, no matter how indifferent, no matter how inconsiderate. You still feel pain. That pain that even the most insensitive, most cruel, most unfeeling person feels is no less real for the fact that the pain is not as intense. Even a psychopath may feel pain. And the cause of that pain? Love. Hate. Whatever you want to call it.

Stop denying it. You know it as well. You feel it as well. Pain is ever constant, ever-building, and never ceasing. Never, for even a moment, lessening. The bliss you feel? That's happiness, which offsets sadness. But it can never, ever, salve the open sore of pain. The only time you cease to feel pain is when your emotional nerves shut down from too much pain: when you go insane.

I hope I never have to choose, insanity or the oblivion of death. What about you?

Looking to the future~
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