Why I choose to love

Perhaps it is selfish to speak of love. I give so as to get, etcetera; a transaction of tenderness, an economy of vulnerability. I make my bargain with pain in order to receive the benefits of joy.

I am prepared to accept this possibility. Self-interest is pursued in many ways, often to the detriment of others. And indeed of self. We are creatures of greedy habit, of myopic pursuit. Our story is written too much in blood. Conquest, control, commodification. We sell ourselves cheaply for comfort and vanity. For thrills. For false promise and other delusions.

Seen in this light, our reflex to love seems a lesser evil than the standard-issue selfishness that arises from ego and fear. Because the interests of others are our own. Your wellbeing is mine. Even if this is a self-validating sleight of hand, it is better than the alternative.

Love may be variously configured. So too unrealistic. It frequently falls foul of the now ubiquitous romantic myth. It may also be deployed as camouflage, co-opted as a cure for loneliness or used to fuel fantasies of completion. And of course it can be mistaken for lust. We are, I imagine, all guilty of love’s misappropriation.

Will I not love so as to avoid these common shortfalls? Shall I scorn it in favour of empire and envy? Are grasping and loathing and cowering the preferred options? Is the triumph of being right worth the loss of the dazzling unknown?

Our lives are replete with risk; and so I choose to place my bets on the uncertainties of loving. It could be grandiose folly, yet as I survey the many paths I may take, I note well those that lead to the hollow halls of trinket and trophy. They seem safer. Surer. But why live in a world like that?

I realise I could climb higher, own more, and garner greater acclaim if I were to play a meaner game. To me, though, it is a losing strategy. An ultimately self-defeating form of self-interest.

Love too may be said to contain its own loss. Yet, here is where I would rather bleed. With you in my heart.