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The Desire To Be Loved
A touch — a look, tender and fleeting. We are scared little creatures — aching for eternal belonging — that unspoken agreement that we are in this together. And yet we avert our eyes. I lower my tone. I play it cool. I’ll hold on to this real me — this messy apparition of vulnerability and tears — until I find the one. Someone who is worth it. But implicitly I understand that this One will not accept the real me unconditionally. I will need to persuade them with something that is not quite me — some general attractive qualities — good looks, pleasant conversation, a worthy mask. Is this deception? To reveal myself later on, after I have tricked them into letting me in? All for the selfish desire to be loved — to be at one with the other. And so I play it cool.
What do we wish for when we wish to be loved? Is it pure narcissism — the childish fantasy of endless affirmation — that some poor being will afford you the constant reassurance that, for example, you are permitted to be here — that your presence is tolerated, if not appreciated? This isn’t sustainable. Resentment develops. And a love based on self-admiration is like tickling yourself — you miss out on the pleasant surprises, the intolerable unpredictability of the other — of a whole separate soul, afforded to love you how they see fit. If I admire my own looks, I will wish to be admired by my looks. But what if they find something else…
