The art of not loving

When it comes to love, everything falls apart. Or at least that’s how it usually happens every time I show up, very occasionally, in people’s lives. Today, they are making immense efforts to lay my foundations. But if I am in the air! I am pure triumphant flight. Uncertain future. My actions are not labeled, I even appear unnoticed.

Lovers of these times are quick to determine relationships. In the effort to channel feelings, they give me titles that appease the lack of control of their passions: “monogamy”, “open couple”, “trieja”, “polyamory”, etc.

Meanwhile, I wait for them to satisfy their nominative anxieties, to surprise them unarmed.

They thought they chose and suddenly they found themselves with whom they least expected. There is no “match” worth. I am “much” better. I’m closer to the wild heart than the labeling mind.

Although I am moved by the willingness to care (they also speak of “affective responsibility”), I cannot guarantee good times. I was always dramatic, if not tragic. At least in the novels I have been portrayed that way.

Robert Louis Stevenson, author of whom many have read his famous books Treasure Island or The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, chose me as the protagonist for his essay, less well known than his novels but equally brilliant, “On Falling in Love ” (1877) which comes with a mostly eloquent subtitle: “Lord, what fools are these mortals!” There warns my irrational empire. “Falling in love is the only illogical adventure, in our trite and sensible world… People have to deal with dominant emotions instead of the easy dislikes and preferences in which they had hitherto spent their days. Suddenly they recognize in themselves aptitudes for pain and pleasure whose existence they had not even suspected they would have.

Already fifty years before Stendhal sought to inventory my appetites, as if love could be satiated. And yet, love, as Alexandra Kohan would say… That’s right, despite everything written, I remain uncatalogueable. I continue motivating, disturbing and all possible gerunds, because in gerund I conjugate, the verb tense of the present, of being passing.

I appreciate that you seek to manage to understand each other better. But sometimes their severe precautions deprive them of the taste of uncertainty. Or is it about not loving, about loving each other? Or do they fear more than they love? How different from Shakespearean times, where love reigned unpunished, and death reunited instead of separating!

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