… but not to mere mortals.
Love as a construct, of course, like all things, be them real or imagined, matters a lot. But all that stuff, this stuff that we see, feel, hear, experience through the senses are, in essence, interpreted by a thing—the brain, mind, self—that we do not understand. Reality, this poisonous idea, thusly becomes something so bizarre that eventually, you get over it; insanity reveals itself to be the only way to cope, be normal. What were we talking about? Oh, right, love.
And then this whole construct of … love … hijacks the senses and makes, of all things, reality seem so possible, probable, plausible. Sure, a concession can be made in the name of love that, at least the first time, the thing has a purpose. The question then, however, must be asked, does love matter?, and then, the entire point of the sensation (love) determines its purpose, that yes, love matters because we’re here, alive, living, grappling with whether or not we’re actually here here. But are we?
No, with time do not the answer come. Nevertheless, time offers an essential perspective, an encasement that gently shrouds the mind from the inevitable. Mortals concern their frittered minds, constantly, with doubts and suggestions and hopes and fears and dreams about knowing, understanding what life means in the context of death. To travel endlessly through time, after all, frees the mind, first and foremost, of these … trivialities surrounding death, which ironically enough, allows for the living of life. Oh, but what about love?
Love, ultimately, embodies pain, loss, suffering, demise. Unless, of course, one can find a fellow traveler. In which case, love expands beyond the knowable limits of … congruence. The Red to Blue, the Blue to Red, when joined make Green, something else entirely. And then we travel.