Like the eternal flame, love is often the timeless terminology to describe the infinite modal congruence of human and divine nature. However, the underlying meaning supposing this correlative issue deserves a conditional twist: if love is timeless, then there is no time for love. Admit all the logical misappropriations and the fallacies involved, but the sense enveloping this thought-experiment ethically means that no temporality can ever measure or settle this a-temporal idea in itself. A lifetime is not even enough, so that every millennia had to represent its lovers in their quintessential form. Whether it is a tragedy or a comedy, the height or depth of romanticism has surely marked its loving vestige in every historical lineage. Its fabric woven and interwoven throughout the roots of culture and tradition proved that it is ever mutating in every generation. It grows stronger than ever. If a life is just 70 years, says Holy Writ, or 80 for those who are strong, then what a strong hold did love create to belittle the lifespan of any creature whose limited expression of love had even to figure it out yet for some years of confusion until its denouement.
Imagine the enduring cycle of this fate: in the beginning you had to grow as a child, finish some years in school, begin a progression of work, spell out the initial engagements to love in failed relationships, rethink the existence of a truly existent flash of euphoria, doubt and find yourself, get trapped in the food web of capitalism or perhaps to some years of another ideology until you truly find the love of your life, spend some considerable time quizzing and testing each other out to drive away the Freudian ‘neighbor’ and traverse the field of familiarity almost in the brink of utter contempt, give in to the romantic momentary instances of freedom, marry, plan out the upbringing of the kids, experience raising kids, make them part of the cycle, grow old together, and die not knowing the pure nature of the endless character of the idea you have been holding on to as the enduring foundation of eternity, realizing that the whole time spent was not truly devoted to it but only to some foretastes you think were its real form. Within this limited frame, claims that there is time albeit bound to narrow restrictions might be able to give a sense of survival but it won’t sustain the truth in sense experience and will thus only invoke hurts and unanswered questions. I counter-claim then that moments which resemble the truest nature of love are not really such but only terminologies mystified of their real appropriations. Going to places with your beloved is not love; call it a vacation, a trip, but it’s not love. Giving the beloved a present is not love; it is mutual gift-exchange sealed with affect chains. Showing concern either ideally or concretely is not love; it is care originally expected of human consciousness predisposed of such environment. Times therefore that might explain love’s possibility are not really times that justify it but instead occasions which point to something else.
There is no time for love. There is none, except […] yes, only in exceptions does love present a temporal presence. And it is not even in elated or rapture moments but as the analyst might put it – in times of intense suffering, whence the beginning of its nature stems from its elementary form of vulnerability, trust, and the radical openness of prolonged hoping for what can only be called as future nostalgia. In the last element of its exception, some kind of perspicacity will have to forge the key to its acceptance. It is the kind of intuition evoking excess over experiences, a state that must not be understood but must only be felt and let go. This is the experience of love’s true face – in masks of feeling ignorant of an edge-cliff feeling and of letting go. Unless this exception is extant, the fallacy of timeless love will always persist in logical inadequacies, but because of this tiny crack of concession, the idea that there is no time for love acquires another meaningful subsistence in the depths of history, of a human timeline, and perhaps in the immemorial remnant of the divine.