The Death of Love

Heart wrenching title, n’est pas? Perhaps even better in French. La mort de l’amour. Yup, better. Melodramatic, but workable.

Describes a quality of things these days. Deadened by life and thoroughly lacking in the sense of love. A certain kind of love, but also maybe all love. Who is it that said “love is beauty”? Or wait a minute, that’s truth, not love. What’s the difference, anyway? There are a lot of question marks in this paragraph — is this a test?

You fail. Moreover, I fail. Fail to see the beauty in things these days — and in that way, also fail to love. I know someone is out there yelling back at me “start by seeing the beauty within!” Alas, there’s the rub. This is more of a question of perception, something hinted at in my dream, perhaps.

It’s the beauty of surrounding that I seek, and yet everywhere I find cold, stark, unfeeling space. Many comrades of the net in recent days have dutifully snapped digital images of a snow-encrusted Montreal, as if to mediate somehow palliates the natural uneasiness of winter. I note nobody ever places themselves out there like a little speck, evoking classic Quebeçois landscapes (by the likes of Jean Paul Lemieux) featuring humble and huddled humans amid a mass of snow and ice. That’s more revealing of the true nature of winter — l’hiver; the mon pays c’est l’hiver winter — the traumatized collective psyche of this part of the world. That doesn’t usually come up until February — there’s still novelty now…

It’s more than just winter in Montreal. It’s the beauty of a pretty girl, an elegant thought, a sumptuous meal. All seem lacking. Anhedonia rearing it’s ugly head. And certainly the devastating familiarity of winter in this town isn’t helping a bit. I feel like I gotta get out of dodge.

But will the grim reaper of Eros follow me, like a mariner’s albatross, hooked around my neck because the universe makes it so? Is this a feeling one can flee? Perhaps not.

Is the answer in the problem? Maybe the problem is the answer. Maybe I’m starting to sound like Heraclitus on a bender. Whatever, I’m just going to go eat a diet of worms.

Or, instead, find a pretty girl to share an elegant thought with over a sumptuous meal…