The love of high drama, too, can be a kind of idolatry, a narcissism of longing and romance. For drama– especially of the human kind we so love, such as the romantic triangle-always seeks to bathe what it cannot (or will not) see clearly in the artificial light of the dramatic situation.

Unable to muster its own intensity (or to honor its subject’s/object’s), it pillages the fires it must create in order to verify the very affections it cannot own. Unable merely to be, to see, to love at a level commensurate with its true potential, it clambers up the rungs of its self-created drama in order to rise, only to find itself– once the drama has (as it eventually must) abated– stranded at heights it can neither sustain nor endure. And it will require a drama, too, to bring it back to earth– but, this time, the drama of the fall, the disappointment, the betrayal.

There is, of course, a rather intense– and, at the outset at least, invigorating– excitement to all this, but it is never fueled by the real, the sustaining, the personally owned. What sustains it, rather, is the borrowed light of some extra-human enterprise– namely, hubris— and, because such light is always a conflagration rather than a warmth, the very enterprise is destined, like Icarus, to perish by the burning light it seeks.

But some persons, of course, need to perish in this manner… over and over again until they are forced, willy-nilly, to acknowledge their own mere humanity. Or else to lose it. By then, however sadly, there may be so little left of them that even what remaining light they can muster will no longer suffice for warmth, much less for love.


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