That’s probably the one vein that runs through all the types of love, even the one-sided ones that involve a place, a thing, or a person – an actor, maybe – who doesn’t even know, or care, that I exist.
Between people, there’s trust that the love is true, even if it’s just platonic love, or even within friendships that may or may not have some extra benefits thrown in.
If the love is for a place, there’s a trust that I extol on that place that it shall remain the same when I come back – if I come back – that the feelings I feel for it now will be there when I come back.
But usually, it’s not.
I remember when I first went to Boracay island twenty years ago. I was young and silly and the island was literally out of the movie Blue Lagoon. You got on a small outrigger type boat from a neighboring island called Cataclan that took you straight through crystal clear waters and straight onto the beach front of your island resort, maybe one of the three main ones on the island at that time.
When you walked along the ocean, your footprints folded into themselves the sand was that fine. You wanted to bottle up the sand and take it home with you because it was just so amazingly clean and fine and white. You walked the stretch of beach and encountered probably just five to ten people throughout the beach.
There was no electricity and everything ran on generators and so at night, after enjoying an island feast in the main hall, you followed the path of tiki torches leading to your beach cottage and crawl into the bed framed with mosquito nets and sleep the night away listening to the ocean surf. LITERALLY.
Eighteen years later, I returned to the Boracay island and my jaw fell to the ground. The white sandy beach was gone (especially between the Stations on the west side of the island). Gone because it was now filled with beach recliners and mats where women did “Thai” massage (one of the master’s teachings have always been to not do this healing art in public) or reflexology, and you couldn’t walk the beach without bumping into another person every three seconds or so.
I remember looking out into the hillside where properties had already been long snatched up by investors – because there was no more room on the beachfront – and asked myself, “when someone flushes the toilet, where does the shit go?”
So yes, Boracay, the trust I have in you got flushed along with everyone’s crap on that island.
And the love is long gone. Because when you fooled me into entering the Crystal Cave, the last thing I expected was to see cheap crystals glued to your ass and sold as Crystal Cave tour. I didn’t care about the money.
But glued crystals? That is just SO wrong…
Anyway, moving on…
Now if the love is for an actor, a performer, who couldn’t care less that I exist, the trust that I hand over to him involves him creating the same feelings he’s created in me the first time I saw him perform, that he makes me feel like I’m soaring again and again, and that yes, in some alternate universe of my own making, he and I are made for each other and there, there’s trust – and lots of sex.
Yes, lots of it – because I studied the Kama Sutra, and the Cosmo Sutra, and I read Details, too.
But then that’s not going fall in the realm of love, is it?