Love is a Religious Problem

Shots of Awe

There’s something really interesting about romantic infatuation. The kind of Romeo and Juliet romantic passion aka love of the adolescent that we celebrate in song and in literature. That we are often told later by psychologists is a sort of legalized form of insanity when people fall into each other. When they fall into that heated fire in the belly, that infatuation for the other, that mutual engendering of godhood results in a kind of narrowing of focus.

We are told that biochemically no different than doing lots and lots of cocaine, we become addicted to the other person and we use that as a means to dismiss the authenticity of that feeling as a way of somehow saying it is not worthy of our attention. Because, it’s a kind of pathology and I was reading this amazing article on brain pickings that was saying the strangest most paradoxical thing is that there is nothing near about being inflamed by passion and fashion as much as it may drive us mad because it’s singularly potent and utterly addictive drug with the capacity to narrow our focus. So, spectacularly as to reduce the entirety of the world to the object of our desire, so think about that again, infatuation narrows our focus so much than the rest of the world dissipates and goes dim the entirety of the cosmos becomes this one person.

That’s a lot of pressure, no relationship can bear the burden of godhood and yet, is there anything more delicious than succumbing into those moments of grace where you see the universe in the iris of your lover’s eye? In other words, in the madness and the intoxication of romantic passion, we may be lying to ourselves, we may be making art out of our relationship but art is the lie that reveals the truth and so, I always say my lover is lie to me but lie me well, make me metabolize belief, make me suspend disbelief, make me believe.

Ultimately, love is a religious problem. It’s an act of faith. It’s an act of surrender. I don’t care if I’m lying to myself, I don’t care we’re lying to ourselves; we are creating a cosmology of two. We are dirtying each other into gods outside of time commingling together stepping off that people over that Karen one ounce toward dead and so, that’s what we do. We arrest time through a mutual reinforcing delusion that becomes a theater of the real. We enter an epistemic lane together, a world of two, shaped like a heart, so I don’t care if love is madness, I still love it!

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