July 23, 2006

" Sinceritatea poate ameţi mult mai tare, decât falsul mister al minciunii." Marin Preda

Mirela Miada

“Sincerity can be more enchanting than the false mystery of lies and uncertainty.”

There is a false belief that one needs to play the uncertainty game in order to get the affection they desire. Men and women alike play the game of uncertainty, burring true feelings underneath layers of deception and emotional blackmail.

Some misinformed and ignorant journalist (let’s call him/her Stupid) messed up million of years of spiritual evolution and turned 'love' into the 'game of love'.

A 2 cents per dozen scientist (let’s call him/her Idiot) came forward professing the discovery that men don’t have a soul, only balls – so they’re meant to procreate (i.e. fuck as many females they can, in their everlasting heroic attempt of keeping the species alike).

Being too busy asserting themselves, and carrying the fate (politics, economy, culture, religion) of the entire humanity on their shoulders, Men missed the argument, and settled - for the life of sexual freevolity.

If 'sex' per se isn’t the issue, than 'the freedom' of "I do what I want whom I want to" takes over. As a philosophical stance, it is beyond suspicion. Life offers a rich variety of temptations, and after centuries of forced morality, nobody frets anymore about a little bit of moral inconsistency, or how I would like to call it – the emotional swamp everyone seems to be dying to swim in.

Excuses become trivial and unnecessary – we live in a time of individual freedom and self-empowerment. I think excuses – scientific or statistical or which ever they may be – come from the thousand of years of religious hypocrisy, to silence the remains of whatever consciousness speaks up.

It’s ironic to throw away so many years of spiritual progress, just so we can play the game of love, only at a higher level this time - of course.


People get it when they only talk about it, but practice shames us all just as it has for the whole length of our human history. It hurts me to witness love fail; prey to the mind games people play with themselves. In my opinion, people who love each other, should cherish the precious gift life has made them.

When love meets love is the very moment of our redemption from the dirt God made us of.


We shouldn’t throw away the chances life gives us to rise beyond what we are into the best version we can be. Because Love is not a moment in time, or a goal to meet, yet the process of discovering your truest self and shading off layers and layers of make-belief, deception or pretentiousness. There’s probably a good reason we take our cloths off in order to make love. We should do the same, symbolically, when we talk love.

For once, I’m not being selfish. This is not about me. It’s about the two couples I watched during the past few days. I watched them willingly hurting each other, in some strange and twisted attempt to gather some proof of love.

They have used up the power words have to convey meaning. They’ve used them so many time for the wrong cause, that words have become astray; and meaningless. They are like fugitives slaves, carrying the signs of abuse on their bruised bodies and souls.

I honestly don’t know (as a psychologist, a woman or as a human being) where and how the cycle begins. The cycle of abuse, and treachery, ultimately of alienation from yourself. I don’t know if you lie to yourself first, before you lie to your lover, or if – loving them, you internalize your lover's disbelief in you. It doesn’t matter who starts, or who’s to blame.


" Fericirea nu are istorie, fiindcă nu poate ieşi istorie din veşnica surpriză pe care ţi-o face fiinţa iubită prin însăşi existenţa ei. "
(happiness has no history, cos the very existence of the one you love is an ongoing surprise)



It takes two to love.
But it starts with only one to hurt, or deceive, or misguide.
in turn, it takes only one to make the first step on the way back to sincerity and trust, and it takes one to forgive. Or to let go.

picture @ mirela miada;
 



P.S. funny how life is sometimes; as it turned out, this was about me, afterall. about the day things could've been perfect: only had he resist the temptation to hurt me again; the day I learned what he really was; the day I let go.

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