Of Pain and Ecstacy

In love, is perfect the enemy of the good?

I've written much about the angst, heartache and inner struggles idealists face in the pursuit of perfect love when involved in loving relationships that for whatever reason somehow seem to fall short of that all-consuming, once in a lifetime union of two souls perfectly suited to one another and mutually able to give nothing less than their all to the object of their love. When a perceived ideal love is lost or otherwise unattainable, is it rational or cruel to settle for something perceived as lesser? What are the long-term consequences likely to be for the romantic idealist and her/his mate? This is one of many poems of mine that delves into this question which ultimately has no answer. Variations on this theme can also be found woven into some of my short fiction and my new novel. The tragicomedy that is life often revolves around this all-important focal point. We go round and round about it, forever captured in its orbit, either engulfed in its bliss or forever pining its absence if it remains just out of reach. Love: the eternal key to happiness or pain, our alpha and our omega, our heaven or hell on earth.