Not emotionally intelligent, just sentimental fools

Pigeons are not very smart birds. However, they are praised for their messaging qualities. Some times are given as example for their orientation and navigation skills. It seems they always find their way home. During summer, some pigeons mistake their own image reflected in the glass window for other birds (of a feather that flock together) and smash into the buildings. Tragic, how a creature, which can find its way home after such a long road, can die out of foolishness or vanity. The real explanation is because pigeons have monocular vision rather than binocular one so they bob their heads as they cannot perceive depth. We all have pigeon moments, when we are not able to perceive depth. The depth of a concept, of an emotion, of a feeling, of another human.
In such moments we become emotionally crippled.

Kaput, finished, defunct, wrecked, sensitively ruined, out of use, outdated, invalid, handicapped, non-operational, obsolete.

Quantum Physics claims that the act of observing something changes it, hence the moment we start observing love, we commence deteriorating it. Death begins when we are born. Love starts dying when we fall in love. We are the moral assassins and gravediggers of our own love. It’s not Quantum Physics that killed love. We did.

We should not pretend to be someone who is ‘fashionable sensitive but too cool to care’ or some circumstantially oriented positivist, just to make it through the modern world.
We are what we are, but moreover we are what we can become: old fashioned and conventional romantics defined by conservative tragedy. Not emotionally intelligent, just sentimental fools.
Drama queens with an extra touch of bitter-sweetness, which comes attached to our hearts, like an extra DNA line to the genetic zigzag. We are the masters of heartily calamity. Our heart map is ruled by the Milky Way of personal dramas. We take everything seriously, including ourselves.

It is not once, twice or thrice, but a million of times we tried to speak of love, hoping that if we desiccate it, like one would dissect a skinned frog in a biology laboratory, we would eventually manage to strip off its semi-divine halo. We took love in the lab instead of taking it into our hearts.

We encouraged and inflated the sarcastic in us, cowardly cloaking our sentiments and authentic beliefs behind an ironic and iron like barricade.

Let us cover ourselves with ashes and spiritually self-flogging in the agora. Let us be apologetic for not being tough, arduous, brutal or malevolent.
For being weak, impressionable, major weepers, incurable romantics, emotionally adventurous and unstable.

We truthfully hoped this denying and agnostic attitude would cure us or our quench and insane desire of finding what love is: the chemical mixture, the misattributed emotion, the trick of Mother Nature, a word invented by men to get free sex. It didn’t.
Our hearts are still deficiently patched-up by our amateur psychological pseudo-skills of pretentious love experts.

To be able to conceal ourselves better, we allowed the agnostic in us to surface. We needed to be bad, to suffocate what we really thought of love, so we could be righteous again. What have we thought of love before we fMRI-ed it? Are we happier now that we know is a mixture of adrenaline, dopamine, phenyl ethylamine, endorphin and oxytocin?

We had to defile love, so we can purify it again. We had to be sick, so we could healthy. We had to hate, so we could love. We had to fall, so we could rise. (2010)