Argument on Love

I

On the subject of love I do believe that there has already been too much that has been written, too much that has been said. All whom partake of literary art are guilty of it in some form or another for all write of it whether they wish to or not. Suffice to say though, there are many forms of love: romantic, platonic, friendship, unifying, divine and so on. However, one must admit, that in all of these, too much has been said. To write about love and—in some instances—to even speak of it out loud is a cliché in most levels of society and, as all will know, there are only two in the world that love a cliché—the Ignorant, and the Mule.
However, gentlemen, this is not the reason for which I now write. I do not presume to speak to you of the defining categories of love for, as you well know, it has become mostly a bore these days. I will, however, speak to of love but not in the way that you have thought of. No, good gentlemen, I insist on speaking to you about love but not in the romantic sense, I fact, in no sense whatsoever. I will not speak to you of how to love, or when to love, or what love means to me; rather, I wish tell you singularly of my theories of why no one will ever truly love me.
“But we have heard this all before,” I can almost hear you think. “There have been many that have thought the same words and yet have not been able to hold to them.” Stay, my friends, and let me reason with you. Admittedly, there have been many that have said the same words that I have now stated and, for as many as have said them, that same number have come to prove the falsehood of their teachings. However, there is a simple difference between their arguments and mine in that theirs is based upon emotion and trite character traits such as: ‘Because I am too ugly’ or, ‘Because no one takes an interest in me’ and so on and so forth. It is true, gentlemen, that those who base their arguments upon saying such will, undoubtedly, be proven to love in the end. It is because they are the sort of people whom, subconsciously through their sayings, vie for pity and compassion from the listener’s ear. They say such things when, yet, they inwardly hope for love, long for it—such as the swaddled child longs for the teat in the darkness of the night. It is in both these things that my saying is separate for I do not wish for any compassion from saying these things to you, gentlemen, and I most certainly do not long for love. In fact, if love were to come to me I would purposefully root it out of my very being which is the reason why I speak to you today, not only to tell of one’s incapability to love me but I wish to speak to you of my incapability to love.
“But one’s incapability’s are only brought out because one wishes it subconsciously to be so.” You might say and, truly that is so to some extent. It is true that if one destines for something to be so and desires it with utmost singularity of thought and person that it will happen to be so. Circumstances, dear gentlemen, do not affect one’s outlook on life, regardless of the high level of blame that circumstances are given by today’s modern man. Ever since the dawn of civilization man has always looked to blame something else for its troubles, cast the purpose of its woes upon some hapless insect so it will be the one to blame. Do you try to deny it? You know it is utterly so.
If one will not blame another for his mishaps then he will, most certainly, blame the circumstances that surround him. Therefore, he will be subconsciously placing the guilt upon the person but in a more subtle way. However, circumstances do not dictate ones actions and neither should they be held accountable for one’s outlook upon any given situation. One may be brought into a circumstance that, to him, may seem dreadful and filled with woe but, to the person next to him may fill him most ecstatically. The also is true in reverse for, what might seem as fearful for the second person might be found good in the eyes of the first, and so on. That is why it is impossible for circumstances to, truthfully, be the sole bearer of blame for one’s outlook on things. It is also is on this vicinity that my argument differs from the others for, in truth, good gentlemen, I do not blame circumstances for my outlook stated above. In fact, it may be found to be quite the contrary.
I do not blame my circumstances in any way, good gentlemen, for I would rather blame myself for the way I appear so today. In essence, I hold myself accountable for my every deed, my every word, and therefore, I have come to neglect altogether every sense of circumstance that as of yet surrounded me. So the vase is broken and the sink has overflowed… splendid—most indeed, splendid—I blame no one but myself, and I unswervingly wish it to be so. It is in this essence, this demand of responsibility, which I first base my argument upon: the first reason why I believe myself incapable of love.
Say, for instance, I were to love somebody but then something were to happen that would separate us, perhaps even permanently. Whether it be my fault or not, or whether or not I had any hand in it I would, exclusively, be the one to blame. This would be so because I would make it such or, at the very least, convince myself of it until it was branded in my mind unswervingly. I would force myself to undergo such mental tortures that only I could contrive until, bruised and bleeding, I steal the crown of thorns from off the head of Christ himself and place it upon my own. It would be heavy and I would then exalt the very feeling of it, the taste of my blood would rectify the sting I felt within my soul at the very onset of the separation.
But why would I do these things to myself, you might wonder? Ah, but stay and let me tell you why it is so. In truth, gentlemen, it is a hard saying that I have mentioned and perhaps you doubt my sincerity in stating it as such. In all respects, you have every right to think it to be so. It is true that most men would never dare to place themselves under such flogging for such an undertaking could never be thought of as healthy in any respects. However, one must ask, gentlemen, which is healthier: mental flailing, or blame placed upon circumstances? It must be one of the two. If not the physical and mental torture that I would, most greedily, inflict upon myself I must then turn towards circumstances and there make my accusations. Therefore, my argument would be found to be of no effect, for then I would become as those that speak as such in hopes of attention or rectifying some past wrong or whatnot. However, as I said before I wish not for any of this, only to make myself understood, and that is why I place liability upon my soul, gentlemen, even if it is not mine to place.
Therefore, this is one reason why I would not think myself capable of loving for, if I were to love and then have it come to an end, the culpability of it would be the very tombstone of my soul! For what worse crime is there, gentlemen, then a crime committed against innocent love, love that wishes only to be loved in return and is in this denied? But of course, this reason is a hard reason; a highly questionable reason and it could never be the sole proprietor of my theory. One could safely question why I would not just love in return and, therefore, not have to undergo this aforementioned flailing of my consciousness. It is on this that I wish to speak to you next.

II

I wish to tell you now why I could not even fancy myself to be a worm—in fact, a worm is too high a specimen to compare myself to. A worm in itself is capable of love, even if it be only love in its most base and unrefined form. However, I do not think myself capable of loving another—or even loving myself for that matter—and that is why a worm would be too noble a specimen to compare myself to. Instead, I shall draw comparison to the germ.
The germ is truly a magnificent specimen to compare one’s self to—if a man could ever think of drawing honest comparison to something other then itself. The bacteria is ignorant, not fully knowing of the damage it inflicts upon its host, and above all, cruel in every form. That is why I fancy myself like unto the germ, gentlemen for, in love, I am both of these things. If I ever were to love I do not think myself capable of doing it and, therefore, would willingly profess ignorance upon the very subject that I write to you of. “But then why would you write of it in the first place?” you may ask, but please, allow me to explain.
I would profess ignorance upon the subject of love and relationships out of pure spite. The very spite that causes me to write to you now of love for, in truth, I am embittered to the very thought of it. But not unto mankind, no never unto mankind; all of man’s woe are caused primarily by a sheer lack of genuine philanthropy. I am, however, embittered unto the very thought of love displayed by me, or love given unto me because of my spite.
It is for this reason alone that I would profess ignorance upon the subject and, simultaneously, invoke unintentional hurt to the receiving party because of my feigned ignorance on a subject. I doubt that there are any of you that will honestly suggest that, in order to tell a good lie, the bearer of the tale must not first believe it himself. One must first be firmly grounded in what they believe before they say it and that is why my deceit of ignorance would render me incapable of love.
But why would I lie unto myself and the one I may love in order to have this ignorance? It is because of the embitterment of my spite that I would profess it, for I am very spiteful toward anyone that would love me. This is so because, above all, I am a very cunning man, one far too aware of his own surroundings for his own good. In fact, if one is too aware of his surroundings (inward and outward) he begins to complicate the very building blocks of mans nature which brings about a disorder of misanthropy. Say, for instance, that I am aware of a certain woman liking me. I am too aware of myself to allow this fancying to flourish, too knowledgeable of my own flaws of character to let her fall in love with one such as me. Therefore, because of spite towards her love which makes my character lacks all the more apparent I become embittered towards her for loving me. I deceive myself, and her, and through this ignorance (for all lies are ignorance) recall not love, nor the flaws that I had hitherto seen.
Do you not see how this works, good gentlemen? I do not think myself capable of love or of one loving me because of the flaws in my character it reveals. Therefore, to hide myself from my own consciousness I would root love out of my heart and tell myself (and her) that I had never loved at all. Through this lie, I become incapable of being loved and thence my relation to the proverbial germ!
However, this does not explain as to how I would make the woman believe that I do not love her and neither do I wish to write much on the subject. I can say however, that it would be in an awful way—not cruel, but in an awful way nonetheless. I would push her away, scorn her and then return to her in order to observe her reactions. They would, undoubtedly, be most undesirable, but that could very well be expected. And it is for that very reason why I would resort to such harmful measures, because the outcome would be expected… I would be able to equally foretell of every sum in any given equation—hence my spite!
Yet, if there be one that would not do this—one that, though I push her away, would return to me in more reverence then before—then… then I would consider the possibility of another human being loving me. For is this not love, gentlemen: to return though put out, to rise and embrace though beaten down, to return with a kiss the hand—the very hand—that mauled you? Tell me of a more faithful love, one that could endure all things more then this, gentlemen, and I will henceforth declare this discussion innate and worthless. Declare it not and you only begin to see the reason for my spite, for I do not believe that this love exists in any hemisphere of our world.

III

But yet, this does not explain fully why I would not just accept her love and let it gloss over the very character flaws that her love would make apparent in me. It is of this that I wish to explain to you now, gentlemen, for this is a very pivotal point. Indeed, the easiest of routes would seem by most expectations to be the accepting route, the route that does not question the love that this woman would give to me but, instead, would accept it with gratitude. It is this knowledge, this acceptance in total submission of an all-encompassing love that I am most afraid of. Above all, this is the love that I find myself most incapable to accept.
The reason why I would not be able to accept this love, gentlemen, is found not within my own mind or out of some sense of self-preservation but rather out of the desire to preserve another, to keep another from feeling that flames that love would give to them through me. In this lies the paradox, gentlemen, the utter irony of the saying for through this is found love, in which, I find my duty towards philanthropy fulfilled. It is not love that whishes to be loved in return; therefore, it is not selfish. It is not love that desires the happiness of others but rather the hurt, therefore, it is not pure. Impure, unselfish love, oh irony of ironies unleashed!
Let me explain this to you, gentlemen, for now I can guess that you fancy me to be rather mad or, at the very least, speaking in the maddened tongues of one given over to too much drink. First I shall tell you of how this love is not selfish for it is the most easily discerned of the two.
The reason why this love is not selfish is because simply it does not want to be loved in return. True love, innocent love, wishes to be loved in return by the recipient of the emotion given; therefore, because it wishes something for itself, it is selfish. Pure unselfishness is giving without wishing anything in return and, though some attest to innocent love being the same way, it is not so. All forms of innocent love wish for something else in return for the emotion they give, even if they merely think it. Actions speak louder then words—it is true—but thoughts are the only place where anything is possible, where dreams and surreal images can easily take on reality. Therefore, the very thought of desiring something in return is selfish in its entirety.
Safely though, I can say that this “love” I speak of is not selfish for it desires the exact opposite from its proponent. It does not want anything in return; in fact, it does not accept anything—even if it is freely given. It is this one respect also that it cannot be love for all love desires something in return, whether spoken or not. Therefore, let us not call it love but rather something else, some unspoken name that we may each place upon it. In desiring nothing and not being willing to accept any this “love” is already twisted which would be fair grounds to theorize it to be impure but, for your sakes gentlemen, I shall give another reason.
The primary reason why this desire I speak of is impure is not because of its inability to accept love given it, rather it desires the hurt of the one it “loves” instead of the well-being. As I said before, this is because this emotion I speak of is not love but rather something higher, something twisted in its own right yet fuller then love in its unselfish wishes. It seeks the hurt, not because it wants to, but because it foresees the futility of loving anything romantically. It sees that, in itself, it is too bad to be loved and, therefore, the proponent of this emotion purposefully hurts the one that seeks to love him in order to keep the giver from an even greater hurt in the future. For which is worse: to uproot a seed before it fully blossoms, or to uproot the plant of love when it is in full bloom? Answer me that honestly, gentlemen, and you will see the logic of my statements.
It also in this respect that I find myself incapable of love for I do not wish to love because I do not wish to be selfish. If I do not love I keep anther from an even greater hurt that would transpire if they were to fully love me. Therefore, in this I transcend the rank of “germ” that I spoke of earlier and become a man, even if others do not think it to be so. However, does it matter if others do not believe it to be so? If one insists that a wall is black and another says its white will any be able to persuade them otherwise if they are firmly convinced in their own minds? Whether the wall is white or black it does not matter, so long as one is convinced of themselves no one will be able to teach them otherwise—hence my reasoning that I keep others from loving me because I do not wish to hurt them. My own wall is black, gentlemen. Who are you to tell me that it is really white?

IV

Lastly though, I wish to speak more to myself then to any of you. I wish rather to convince myself of my own writings for, truthfully, all I have hitherto spoken to you of have been lies. Perhaps I could be convinced in my own mind that they are not lies, but I cannot be even certain of that. If I tell you that truthfully they are lies that I have said what it to say which is the lie? It could either be my confession or the entire argument and, again truthfully, I myself am not certain of either. Perhaps if I could be convinced in my own mind of anything I wrote I would then believe it but I cannot say I am certain of much I have written.
Perhaps it has been out of spite… yes… spite, spite at the very knowledge of what I myself have done to me. It has not been any of your faults, gentlemen, and as I’ve said before, I do not wish for any sense of sympathy. Rather, I wish to understand… or be understood. I myself wish to understand me. If I were convinced of half of what I have said then perhaps I could convince you of it entirely. But I do not think that any of you could be convinced of it for, in lies, I cannot even believe what I say. Hence my inability to lie straight out to you, hence my desire for the truth within me.
I do believe there is a speck of truth in all of us, gentlemen, even in the most chronic of liars and thieves. There must be some moment, some crack within the continuum of time, that even Satan himself would tell the truth honestly. Perhaps it was when he admitted within himself that he was proud and fell from eternal grace for, even though he admitted it, he did not have to accept forgiveness for it. Perhaps there is some truth in what I have written, though what and where it is (or if there is any) I cannot say.
There is one thing though, gentlemen, one thing that has nagged within the back of my mind and it is because of this that I have written to you now. Yes, even in my purpose I have lied to you for, indeed, I do not believe in anything I say. I wished to write to you not to understand or to be understood, rather I write to you now in hopes that I could then define me. In all of this, gentlemen, I have been exceedingly wicked for I have stolen fire from the very throne of God and I do not wish to return it. My pride will not let me, hence my inability to accept my own forgiveness of myself. That is why I write to you now for I have only wasted your time… gentlemen… please, forgive me!