What nobody tells you about love—or at least what nobody told me—was that cause and effect blend into one another to a degree that it’s nearly impossible to untangle.
My ex is her own person. I’m my own person. But because we have a child, our future is bound up in the child we’ve created.
If you were to take the entire human race, and represent time as a 4th spacial dimension, you’d see humans like spaghetti strewn over the face of the earth. And sometimes you’d see two strands curl up and produce a third, a fourth, and so on. And as the original strands become old and immobile, the new springy strands of spaghetti start to dart around.
If you zoom out, you don’t see any of the things we spend our time talking about. He did this or she did that. You don’t see doctors, lawyers, criminals, or anything else. You just see strands either getting pinched out of existence, or continuing to find their way into the future. You don’t see contracts, agreements, promises, or anything of the sort. The worst thing that can happen to you is to be a lone strand of spaghetti, curled up on yourself, wound up, and no future to spring yourself into.
Love is blind precisely because it’s a world where cause and effect lose meaning.
And when the love turns south, it’s not like you stop caring. You care, but the vibes go from positive to negative. You care just as much as you always have, but now it’s dark, damp, and gloomy.
I listened to an episode of This American Life, where a woman talks about her love at first sight moment. She met this guy, and she immediately knew she would marry him. They didn’t last. The interviewer ask for more. She said she found him day drinking and she couldn’t take it anymore.
It sounds reasonable. Of course you don’t want to be with a person with a drinking problem. Imagine having that around your kids. You could also tell she knew it wasn’t the full story. It wasn’t the real reason, only the proximate one.
If you were to ask him why he was drinking, he’d likely have a good answer. Maybe another proximate cause. And you might go, “Yeah, I get it, that sucks and she shouldn’t have done that, but drinking isn’t going to fix it.” And he’d say, “I know, but at this point I’ve lost hope, and I don’t know what to do.” And that’s how it goes.
Who’s ultimately at fault?
Realistically, it doesn’t matter, but either way it ends in tears and pain. But we want to know! And when the ego takes over, these people might end up falling into the laps of vampires, who will suck the life out of the two of them, until an answer is finally put on the table—not that anyone would be satisfied.
Of course the vampires would be unsatisfied because they still want blood. And at least one of the two former lovers would feel either righteous indignation or resignation.
Every step of the way, these people are self-destructively crying out for help, and aggressively waving the white flag. But the other person interprets the cry for help as either a weakness or a fault in the other person.
They can’t stay, and they can’t let go, and they gradually grind each other into a fine powder. Some couples live in peace, cover for each other’s weaknesses, and build each other up. But imagine foolishly applying this in a relationship where the other person will leave you as soon as they get their head above water. So stupid. So counterproductive.
Love is tricky business. It’s not for the faint of heart. It takes courage, commitment, and grit.
When Mario finally saves Princess Peach, he’s not so much winning a trophy as he is meeting the ultimate boss level. There’s no beating Princess Peach. After her, there is no more game. There are no more levels. You can’t destroy her without destroying yourself in the process. The nuclear option is always there, you can both press it, but you chose not to. Together, you are more than 2, you are 3, 4, 5, 6, and maybe 7—if you’re lucky.