LOVE IS A DOG FROM HELL
Bukoski wrote that people on this world are mutilated either by the presence of love or the absence of it, an overwhelming amount either drowns them or the surprising lack of it interferes with their daily life. “The history of melancholia includes all of us,” he includes, and I can only agree with what many must see as the words of a madman — or, to put a more positive connotation to it, a poet.
I try not to remember heartbreak. Because as most people would agree, heartbreak is generally a negative sensation. It’s intense emotional pain and distress, a disease whose only feasible cure is time. It fuels addiction and intensifies crises and ultimately it is unavoidable. But as days pass I find the throbbing ache in my heart to take its course through my entire body and the more I ignore it, the further it infiltrates my mind. As dangerous as the presence of love can be, the absence of it can be a narcotic as well. In his novel Slade House, David Mitchell wrote: “Grief is an amputation, but hope is incurable haemophilia: you bleed and bleed and bleed.” And indeed. People are mutilated either by love or no love — the former is one of the greatest and arguably the most powerful thing on earth, and the latter is a hopeless mixture of both grief and hope, pain and unrealistic expectations.
It is no coincidence that the topics of love and death are so closely intertwined.
