Love Is Colder Than Death

Values derived from mass media make me sick. I'm realizing that my entire life has been a complete waste of time. I'm often asked if my nihilism falls apart in the face of human emotion. No, the moments are intensified and existence becomes more tolerable and colorful, but they fail to resolve any issues of universal meaning and purpose, unless one comes to accept certain emotions and feelings as meaning enough. Lately I feel like I've been cast into a vortex of neverending bullshit without a safety net and a life of wild, self-destructive libertinism seems rather appealing. If we can't have the omnipotence of gods, we at least can destroy like gods.

43 years ago The Beatles proclaimed that all we need is love, no doubt a sentiment of last resort, the final straw grabbed by those who've exhausted all other conventional avenues of meaning (or never bothered to look). It's a charming meta-philosophy bereft of the annnoying nuances that permeate everyday life. Could it really be that simple? Probably not. Should love be an end in itself? Or should it be just one piece of the unique puzzle that leads to contented fulfillment? Not everyone will end up like the Lovers of Valdaro. Love is a poor and frankly pathetic raison d'être.

715 years ago Dante wrote of the seductive nature of love and its tragic dimensions often overlooked in moments of blissful zeal:

"And thinking of her a sweet sleep overcame me, in which a marvelous vision appeared to me: so that it seemed I saw in my room a flame-coloured nebula, in the midst of which I discerned the shape of a lord of fearful aspect to those who gazed on him: and he appeared to me with such joy, so much joy within himself, that it was a miraculous thing: and in his speech he said many things, of which I understood only a few: among them I understood this: 'Ego dominus tuus' (I am your lord): It seemed to me he held a figure sleeping in his arms, naked except that it seemed to me to be covered lightly with a crimson cloth: gazing at it very intently I realised it was the lady of the greeting, she who had deigned to greet me before that day. And in one of his hands it seemed to me that he held something completely on fire, and he seemed to say to me these words: 'Vide cor tuum' (Look upon your heart). And when he had stood for a while, he seemed to wake her who slept: and by his art was so forceful that he made her eat the thing that burned in her hand, which she ate hesitantly. After waiting for a little while his joy was all turned to bitter grief: and, so grieving, he gathered that lady in his arms, and it seemed to me that he ascended with her towards heaven: from which I experienced such anguish that my light sleep could not endure it, and so was broken, and was dispersed."

Of course, love means nothing only in tennis, and I've never been much of a tennis player. Just because there are no guarantees doesn't mean it shouldn't be sought after and cherished until the final flicker of life's ember.