Utopian Love

We chase utopia not only in our lands, but also in our hearts. But there is no such thing as Utopian Love. It does not exist but in art.
It is made up by painters with too much color,
writers with too much ink,
and singers with too many notes.
This earth has fallen, and love has fallen with it.
Utopia is impossible.
Is love impossible too?
Like the great explorers of old, we each venture out into the open seas, the Great Unknown, with hope in our hearts and lust in our eyes. We lay out our maps, riddled with errors and muddled with pride, and plan our desired course.
The promised land?
Love.
Love is our New World, and we seek it with selfish ambition⸺for glory and comfort, for contentment and satisfaction.
Mark the maps, set the course, watch the compass.
But then comes an unexpected storm. The sea rises and falls, threatening to break our ship into pieces.
We should turn back against the wind, back to land, to home, to safety!
No.
We will fight the waves, beat the storm, and continue onward.
Sail!
Finally, after sleepless nights, sickness and hunger, pain and sorrow, two words from the crow’s nest make our hearts jump with abrupt joy.
“Land ho!”
Could it be? Land? Weathered eyes pear beyond the horizon of reality. Amidst fog and haze blurred edges reveal green and brown, grey and land.
Land. What a cry arises from the ship. The search is over! The lust has been ransomed, the foolish expectation paid and bought by blood, sweat, and tears.
Closer and closer our ship crawls through the water to the shore.
Closer and closer our hearts creep to the edge of disappointment and hardship.
Finally, the anchor drops, and we row in a small boat to shore. At first, we see promise.
Trees, plants, animals.
Life.
Utopia?
But after the initial greeting, and the formal introduction to this new land, a horror begins to reveal itself.
This land is hard. This land has a past, and deep wounds in its ground left by war and blood.
Then the famine starts.
Hunger.
Pain.
Death.
What land is this?
This once promised land turned to hell.
This once distant hope grew into despair.
We had not anticipated hardship.
We were not prepared for disappointment.
We came not armed to fight.
The reports must have been wrong. We were promised milk and honey, wine and good cheer.
We were promised Utopia.
We were promised love.
What land is this?
Surrender seems inevitable. Defeat is breathed as easily as air. We cannot continue to fight this land in hope of a day when all is made new. Such a day might never come.
So we abandon this land.
We pick up our flags and run to the ship, fortitude abandoned, conceited ambition grasped firmly.
Out upon the open sea we set sail once again. Utopia is out there, we know it. The New World, perfect and shimmering, cannot exist only in our dreams.
We must find it.
We must claim it.
We must make it ours and ours only.
Finally, after many storms in sea and in heart, we hear those two golden words once again, sweeter than honey.
“Land ho!”
Land. This must the promised land, the New World, our Utopia found. But this land we find is rocky and unyielding, cold and windy. There is no promise here. Utopia lies elsewhere.
We set out on the open sea once again. What do we seek? Utopian love.
A promised land filled with unrealistic expectations fulfilled, a land flowing with the milk of endless infatuation, the honey of effortless affection.
We seek the New World: bright and glorious, a land that will bear forth undemanding fruit of charity, the abundant feeling of self-worth and association. It will make us brave, give us value, and heal our wounds of memory.
It is the land called Utopian Love.
This is why we sail, searching, searching, always searching.
We must find that land.

we never do.

we sail forever.

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