Brennan’s doubts on love, the validity of her relationships that never seemed to go anywhere, and the growing doubt that maybe there just isn’t someone out there for her, even if she’ll ever be ready. Disclaimer: Bones is still not mine. No infringement is intended.
Disclaimer: Bones is still not mine. No infringement is intended.
“Love,” you scoff.
That effusive word others are too keen to speak of, obsess about, fixate over. For the time being, you have indulged those around you. Listened to endless prattle of your colleagues, friends, and associates go on about the love in their lives.
You’re polite. You have been the obligatory third-wheel on their date nights, gone to their parties and weddings – alone. Have witnessed impassively your friends' ardor, then catch sight of him – and you act detached, aloof, guise never slipping, always Temperance Brennan. Smiling, you tell them that you are happy for them. But are you, honestly?
Ignominious pangs of jealousy consume you, yet you are not that cliché female: single, insecure, and resentful of those ‘lucky’ women with husbands and families. Countless times, you have railed against the purported sanctity of marriage and other vows of commitment. You are not defined by the man in your life, nor are you swayed by the truly ridiculous romantic notion that you need a man to ‘complete you’. An affront to your independent nature, this is why you look at those women in their impetus for ‘completion’ with disdain. When that amorous shine of love is gone after the glamour fades what then?
These notions of romantic love seem so outdated, that how a logical, empirical scientist as yourself can have such an inner struggle with its’ concepts is highly irrational and disconcerting. You can no longer internalize this emotional debate.
I am at a serious quandary.
“What is Love?” I wonder.
I’m always ready to offer anyone the clinical, most scientific definition.
“Merely a chemical reaction, biologically, there are many facts on arousal, and reproduction. Whereas with love, the data available isn’t elucidatory, just conjecture.”
I’ll continue perhaps with some long complex explanation until they lose interest, or they take pity on me and mercifully change the subject. So ill defined is love, a word whose very definition is so vague. Is it because it so rare?
I can only observe others around me in their so-called state of bliss. Something within those quiet looks of complete adoration, that’s what makes me envious. All at once, I come to a realization; I know that’s what makes love indefinable. That internal unspoken bond, the interplay, that connection is so difficult – that inexpressible feeling; you won’t be able to characterize correctly unless you experience them firsthand. Observing objectively only obscures the data.
I had no occasion to scrutinize its’ phenomenon first hand.
Looking back into my past, I felt my biological need were sated. Were these men just lovers? Did I feel anything else from them, than just a sexual release? Can I honestly say those relationships had any meaning past the surface. Did I ever share a connection, a bond beyond the physical? Many men have stimulated me, mentally as well as the physical, but I convinced myself it was ideal. They all professed desire for me and sometimes even more in the fleeting moments of bliss in my bed, but I’ve learned to turn a deaf ear to promises and whispers made in the dark.
Was it a fleeting grasp at some foolish ideal? Some abject reminder of how fragile my psyche is in reality?
Love. Like they could ever love me.
I’m not certain, but now something is missing, some piece. There is emptiness. Work, writing, nothing has filled it…except…
Beyond desire, beyond, wit, beyond familiarity, there needs to be more. Gradually, I’ve become conscious of that absent intrinsic need, the one I’ve haven’t encountered before.
I rely on what facts have always told me. Lust can be measured, arousal is visually discernable, but love… love…
I have no genuine knowledge of it, only love can be theorized.