"Tainted" Love

 

adulterate - verb - render poorer in quality by adding another substance, typically an inferior one (Google).

I woke up this morning with William Shakespeare on my mind. Okay, I know what you're thinking: the woman must miss teaching high school English. Yes and no. Mostly no, though. What I do tend to feel nostalgic about is literary exegesis, getting into the bone marrow of a work analytically before an audience, attentive or not. What I am finding, though, is that in the absence of legitimacy, I am reflecting on my own life, perceiving it as a work of art and dissecting it instead. Which could be dangerous and probably is. 

Last weekend, I officially fell in love with a man who shares a birthday not with Shakespeare but with F. Scott Fitzgerald. Not surprisingly, the two have a few things in common. Which could be dangerous and probably is. But I digress slightly. What this blog is supposed to be about is not him or me or Shakespeare or Fitzgerald, but love and its nature. Will Shakespeare got it right, and in a sense, so did Scott Fitzgerald. Those of you who associate love with God are on the right track, but anything pure–concrete or abstract–remotely associated with human nature tends to become adulterated over time, in short, as imperfect as we are. In "Romeo and Juliet," every type of love is depicted. Friendship, parental love and family loyalty all enter and exit the stage, and in the spotlight of center stage, of course, is romantic love. Which is the most flawed of all because it takes hold of the senses and doesn't let go. It makes the most practical lose their heads, and eventually, their hearts. Heck, look at what happens to Rome and Jules. Not good. 

Romantic love makes this optimist pessimistic, but only because I know tainted love too intimately. (The song isn't all that bad as it is accurate.) But at the same time, I don't want to let go of it, don't want to give up hope, throw in the towel. I keep thinking that Romeo and Juliet will wake up from death in the final moments of the play and carry on together in love. I guess I am the optimist, after all. Incredibly blind. Incredibly unrealistic. Incredibly romantic.

The truth is whatever love provides us with, perfect or imperfect, we need. Life is one big, fat duality. You've got to take the good with the bad. 

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