Love Has a Selective Memory

Love contains many threads intertwined with our very humanity. We are born of love and live surrounded by it, even if we do not all share the same definition of it or cherish the same things. In a way, I believe we are steeped in love all the time—to put it gently—whether we like it or not.

Eventually, beyond simply receiving it, we are tasked with growing our own sturdy branches: those formed through romantic love, through the choice to share a life with someone else.

I do not intend to decipher the minds of those who live in solitude, nor do I claim to grasp their truths. Yet I often think of historical figures who died unmarried or devoted their lives to other pursuits. I like to imagine that they, too, loved someone in silence, if only for a fleeting moment.

Love can bloom with immense strength and intensity in a single weekend, or in a matter of days. I think, for instance, of the film The Bridges of Madison County, which I have watched several times. I have always wondered whether what the protagonist experienced was true love or, rather, a longing for freedom that was never realized—a yearning for what might have been.

Perhaps that proves that when we speak of love in front of others, we may be holding a specific name, a shared moment, or an unmatched intensity in our minds. We do not always voice it, yet it lingers there, somewhere deep inside us.

Love asserts itself. We close our eyes, remember, and for a moment, we taste it again. Good for those who can close and open their eyes to find a single, present reality shared with someone else.

For those who cannot, there remains a deep and honest truth within: hard to hide from ourselves, yet easy enough to keep hidden from the world.