Love: but not the kind you read about

Bianca Iovino explains why that sweet Gucci bag can’t fill the hole in your heart. Nor can Ewan McGregor. Sigh.

It’s cruel really.

How we’re encouraged to run through childhood and adolescence, blindly and carelessly. Perceiving humans as intrinsic and complex creatures. Thriving off deep desires and passions. That our lives will be multifaceted and diverse.

Call me cynical— hell, I do. It may be the struggle of adult responsibility or the fact I’m trying to come to terms with the man I love leaving my life. But the façade our lives are vessels destined for greatness is falling around me like picture frames in an earthquake.

Those are genuine facets, no doubt. I don’t deny that. But I have come to a screaming halt in my twenties— and maybe I’m lucky to have gotten this far with my heart intact and my brain dominant.

But I know now more than ever why we’re called animals. Any stage of Darwinism demonstrates our need to scope out the necessities for survival:

  • Food
  • Shelter
  • Community
  • And love.
  • Love

The primal search for love is something many are born with, and the several types rear their head at various times. The mushy stuff: often at stages of great vulnerability, confusion and distasteful realisation.

Fundamentally, we don’t really strive to be the best at our job or to have the most money or to fuck the most people.

It is our heartbeat that drives us. It speeds to a fast gallop as we evolve. We begin to gage why some people get out of bed in the morning, and others can’t find the strength. The reason people spend months of their lives embarrassing themselves on television and why some age like fine wine, and others turn sour like vinegar.

It is love. Having someone or something to love and be loved back.

You may not find joy in narcoleptic Argentineans, love ballads or Ewan McGregor, but Moulin Rouge said it all.

“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love, and be loved in return.”

Underneath, that is all anybody ever wants.

Everything is shadowed in its enormity. The void for a partner growing bigger the more our heart is bashed and bruised. The more we are convinced we are damaged or psychotic or hard to love. The more glowing skin crumples into worry lines and youth trickles into the wedding age.

Try to drown it all you want with drink or drugs or sex or Gucci.

Your heart beat will still be there. Driving you to your destination. And you won’t know where that is until it stops— if you’re lucky.

Words by Bianca Iovino.

Images by Chloe Allchurch.

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