“How can it be that love dies, if all we trust is something so vulnerable, it should be imperfect, it should be alive? Would it not be that trust dies, and memories stay to either haunt, or remind us, that it is the remembrance to love that still hurts?”– Modern Romanticism
Love is not the heartbeat, so much as life will represent that. Literal life, in how we mistake trust for love. Due to that love cannot die, it is then that trust becomes what we cling upon. It becomes life that we cling upon. When trust dies, we are, literally speaking, “torn apart”. For we had been most vulnerable, before our beloved, as we are now lacking them, due to death. In lacking them, we have been parted from them. Our vulnerability in being around them, made ourselves fuse with their forms. Intimacy is the emplacement of truest trust, upon truth we would not ever show another.
As love is unable to die, like the heartbeat, it is then that trust is leftover to die. What happens upon the ending of romance, not due unto death? It is the same as any ending. Trust is dead, not love, since it is the memories of them that keep us hurting.
We are beautiful, because we had been trusted to show our colors. We had been trusted to reveal, that is. Because, in being closed up, of our wounds, of everything within ourselves, we had trusted no one. We had perhaps trusted objects, and perhaps humanized them, because they could not speak back, could not hurt us, due to our control over them. Does death ever speak back, ever hurt us, in that scenario? In this, we realize that no loved one, no genuinely trusted one, is seen as the object, the usable function. We cannot confuse lust with love, for if we do, then who we love will be used, like the body. Love is unusable, because it is not like the body. When we trust the body, it is the same for the other in allowing information to be revealed. Were a body to be dissected in an autopsy, a person has control over a corpse, treated as a tool for study.
Human bodies are tools, able to be taken apart, dismembered of limbs, studied for analysis in dissection, and absorbed into our minds as knowledge. If it is the form that can be torn apart, in all knowledge we can gain from it, then how can it ever be that love would die, the same way? That is, if remaining memories keep us hurting, then what has brought about that hurt, is the absent trust. Because, due to ourselves opening up, it had been our heart giving itself that allowance.
Love does not tire itself, as much as the body never needs rest. A physical sensation, is a bodily sensation. Of anxiety or depression, these things are brought from the mind, though felt in the body. Pain that comes from anxiety, to pain that comes from depression, is either the alertness for survival, or the heaviness from wishful thinking. These are always sensations that the body feels, though the mind thinks upon.
Imperfection is the body. If science cannot understand the mind, it is because it cannot understand perfection. Science can dissect imperfection, can dissect the body for knowledge’s sake. Though, can an Atheist, also a scientist, truly say that God is dead?
Love hurts, though only when trust is gone. If a Christian says to trust God, he is saying to trust the thought, not the wounds that come from it. For that is what people will inevitably do, when they cannot think for themselves. Though, whenever in love, do we ever think without our beloved’s input? “Independent thinking” is never something we can conjure, when our beloved cannot be ignored.