CHAPTER TWO: IS LOVE REAL?

 

At the Edge of Self, in the Deepest Hour of Night

(Before you begin reading, please play "On Nature of  the Daylight" and let it carry you. I wrote these words inspired by its melody, listening to it over and over again.)

In the first chapter, when we asked what love "really is," we were searching for a name to fill that indefinable, vast void in our minds. We tried to wall it in with words and frame it with logic. But now, it is time to shatter those frames. Because the real issue isn't what love is—it's where we stand, how naked and how vulnerable we are, when that uncanny emotion finally strikes.

In the endless noise of the modern world, everyone claims to be searching for an "other." The streets, the screens, the crowds... We are all screaming: "See me!" Yet, let’s be honest; most of us aren't looking for the depth of another’s soul. We are merely looking for a smooth, obedient mirror to echo the cry of our own loneliness. We are in love with our own voice, captivated by our own reflection; but we don't care what the wall feels when that voice hits it.

Agnes and William: The Well Where Words Fall Silent

To see the moments where love escapes this "narcissistic reflection" trap and touches the cold, searing skin of truth, one must look to the misty world of Hamnet—to the silent but earth-shattering bond between Agnes and Shakespeare.

Agnes... She didn't love the "brilliant mind" that the rest of the world saw in William, nor the title of the "great playwright" he was to become. She saw the restless void in the deepest corner of his soul. She saw the raw, wounded, and naked truth that no one dared to touch—perhaps a truth William couldn't even admit to himself. This is not looking into a mirror to fix one's hair; this is looking into a dark well with no visible bottom and daring to fall in.

While most people try to pour the "other" into their own ideal mold, to carve them, to "fix" them; Agnes accepted William in all his uncertainty—with his restless spirit that constantly drifted away from home and himself, and most importantly, with the weight of that unspeakable grief for their son. Their love was not a comfortable bliss by the fireplace. Their love was the will to never let go of each other's hand in the middle of a catastrophe, as the world collapsed around them. While Shakespeare’s words moved the world and applause thundered in theaters, Agnes’s deep silence was the sanctuary where those words were born, the invisible vessel where that pain was poured. This is the most sacrificial, most aching form of love: accepting to be the invisible foundation of the beloved's grandeur.

The Cell of the Ego and the Unheard Melody

It’s tragic, isn't it? Human beings, by nature, live in a narcissistic prison. We spend our lives within the walls of our own minds. When we say "I love you" to someone, how much of our voice actually makes it out past those walls? Usually, what we mean is: "I love the shimmering effect you have on me. I love that you love me." This is not a bond; it is a ritual of validation that the ego performs for itself.

Much like the fleeting sound produced when a piano key is struck; love is a short-lived resonance that occurs when two beings collide. The sound is beautiful, yes, but it is temporary. We usually fall in love with the fact that we are the "master fingers" producing that sound, rather than the sound itself. While we are deathly afraid of losing control over ourselves, imagining that we are truly part of someone else's life is the most tragic lie we tell ourselves.

Does Love Real Exist? (And Why Does It Hurt So Much?)

Now, as the music reaches its most haunting crescendo, let us face that inevitable question, looking it straight in the eye: Beyond all these illusions, does love really exist? Or is it just a literary shroud draped over a biological necessity, an instinct for survival?

If you imagine love as it is in the movies—as eternal happiness, a permanent peace, or a state of possession—then no, love does not exist. That world is a myth.

However, if we define love as Agnes dared to lose herself in William’s grieving silence—as that brief moment where two foreign souls lower all their defense mechanisms and face each other’s most vulnerable, darkest, and ugliest sides... Then yes. Those seconds are real. And those seconds are worth an entire lifetime.

The reality of love is hidden in its irrationality, in its madness that defies logic. You find the footprints of love in that narrow, breathtaking corridor where questions like "What is in it for me?" or "Where will this relationship take me?" lose their meaning, and you simply say, "Let them be well, even if I cease to exist." If the presence of another suddenly renders all those thick walls you've carefully built meaningless; if the possibility of their pain becoming more important than your own existence haunts you, then be afraid. Because you are touching something real—a truth powerful enough to destroy you.

Conclusion: Loving While Saying Goodbye

Everything else—the long vows of loyalty, the habits, the safe harbors... They are merely cold monuments built in memory of that first, searing contact.

Love exists; but the price is heavy. It exists only for those who dare to step outside the safe boundaries of their own self and shiver in that cold. Most people never even pass by love in their lifetime; they just kill time with comfortable imitations and call it living.

The truth is this, and this truth hurts: Love is not a grace bestowed upon you; it is a risk you take at the cost of giving up yourself. Real love is not found in "attaining" the other, but in being able to melt into the moment even while knowing that one day, you must part. Much like a pianist watching that final note hang in the air after the most beautiful piece is played, and then silently leaving the stage to the darkness...

Love is that deep, deafening silence that follows the final note. And the whole point is who you are left with in that silence.

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Yunus Emre Eşkin