It never ceases to haunt me that the only love I have ever been able to truly understand has been that in which all aspiration must forever fall short of its goal as though seeking to obtain some infinitely distant horizon that recedes further away with every self-directed step of instinct or reflex taken towards it. The enigma is not the sense of hopeless impossibility or futile longing against all probability that this experience inevitably carries but is, rather, that love – just as peace or freedom – is always and in all ways an ineffable property or quality in life, indistinguishable from nothingness and the near mystical presence of absence or negation.
What wisdom lies even deeper here is that any kind of implausible venture upon just such a hollow desire to attain the completeness and happiness that an Other comes to represent is an endlessly self-propagating mystery and self-reflexive labyrinth of emotional and cognitive (if not ontological) confusion that all beings bearing a Self must endure. The metaphysical unattainability of the Other is identical to the indefinitely-extensible logical vacuum that occupies the central position and gravitational center within our own selves and that – in a nutshell – is our shared existential problem. We already possess the thing we seek and everything else we engage in is just so much pointless animal or psychological sound and fury; we direct ourselves towards a love that in so doing simultaneously defines and confines us as and in a Self that is substantively unable to surrender to the truth of its own ultimate and irreducible fiction.