Love is an experiment. One feels compelled to apply all parts of themselves in being meaningful to the other (accounting that one should be meaningful to oneself first/equally). The other, when loved, deserves nothing but the whole/complete. It is hard to live with oneself so, and comfortably so too: the whole array of choices lie before the human mind, every second, and in being genuine one must be their complete selves, the consequences inevitable. So that when choices emerge in bad faith, they are either released or grabbed (for you can’t be half-hearted now – the ensuring guilt will not be tricked). Whichever is the better option? Whichever is good? No, whichever is meaningful. It is an experiment of our withins to act not necessarily in a good way, but in a meaningful way, and therefore, well, and ultimately, in all.
It is the case that there are beings within our withins that harbor shame; notwithstanding that they might indeed be shameful. These beings then have the most interesting of choices, for one needs to offer something for it to be rejected, and as such, they must present themselves for assessment, and the assessor (it must be mentioned) cannot molest. So there needs trust.
Can you love someone you don’t trust?
Depends, one might quickly answer, on what my intentions are with my love.
It is an experiment. A life – whether loved or not – is lived; all the while the concoctions of ourselves under different environments as set forth by our being-in-our-world (long-distance, race, the dollars, age, culture) yield varying results. To everyone’s curiosity – most of all the lovers’.
Ever finding new ways to love. See, it is indeed an experiment. Ever finding out things about you even when the experiment fails – es–esp–especially when it fails. For failing can be done well, in being complete/whole. But, in presenting, one must allow for the possibility of dissension, if not rejection. Why? Well, to quote Perks of Being a Wallflower: We accept the love we think we deserve.
BUT while it can feel easy and paramount to ascertain who deserves us, it can take beyond lifetimes to riddle who we deserve. Deserve, a dangerous term for its aboutturnness. So concrete-sounding and so mucky-meaning. Even so, the muckiness of meaning is no deterrent in search of answers. So, who do you deserve?
Everyone, to begin, deserves life; in the moment they have it. You deserve life while living. Theoretically and factually true. The pure certainty of something being something when it is something and no longer. That an act is a permanent imprint on time, not badly, not wrongly, but there-ly. In which case unless you were living in bad faith/being-a-lack-of-whole, you deserve a whole life. That is who.
But this deserve is also guaranteed by you. Surely a choice must be placed on those you presume to deserve? No one life is larger than another, even if it is. But a life is well or poorly lived, even if it is not. One must want the whole life that they have deemed to be deserving of; making deserve multi-faced, standing our ground while stretching to gather all parts of ourselves to make ourselves whole. And deep down in our stretching – for ambiguous uncertainties prefer the muck – one has to deal with dualities, multiplicities. It is not a given that what we want is necessarily what we deserve. Yet ambiguous as it might be, deserve is almost instinctively clear on what it needs: reciprocity – an earning of it, of its meaning. And this could very well be the crux of it all, that these ambiguous uncertainties, when noticed, become (by virtual of living wholly) exposed, and one can only guard oneself against badfaithing so that their love remains meaningful. For beginnings and endings are not all apart, even for infinities. Especially for infinities.
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