Citizens, it is untrue that we of the Collective have renounced love for clarity. We recognize that the illusion of dispassionate clarity is Tom Hanks wearing a Debra Messing mask. We are committed to the crucial struggle against the stifling influences of reason, limitation, and diet soda. And love – true love – is an integral part of that struggle.
Like life, love is hard. To burn like a sun is a lifetime’s work, and the clown’s face is a layered monstrosity. No matter the milk and cookies, Santa will not leave a lusty young lovely in stockings and stilettos for you under the tree. The Easter Bunny will not bring you a shirtless fireman with your yearly ration of Peeps. We may dream of such gifts, but these dreams are tepid: heat comes from friction, friction from opposition, and opposition from action. Dreaming is the solace of slumber, and to be human is to be awake.
It is purest folly to think that the one you love might love you back. Of all the people in the world – lingerie models, tycoons, accountants, actors, necktie designers, Rod Serling – why should you hope she would choose you? In a world full of choices to delight the palate, who would choose Cocoa Pebbles?
And yet, some do.
Love, like life, is the art of embracing futility only to stab it in the back. Damn the odds, fight the likelihood. Pursue your dreams like a dog chasing a firetruck. Follow your love into hell with a song. Place your bets, roll the dice, and walk away with your well-groomed neck high.
