Soul Tunnels

Ah, love—one of life's most ungrateful pursuits. So often, when we pour our affection into someone, they perceive it not as a gift freely given, but as a conquest, a personal triumph, a subtle form of dominion over us. We surrender ourselves to those who extract from us, or we draw from those who offer themselves to us. In this dance, we find pleasure either in the act of giving or in the act of receiving, convinced that our love is reciprocated by the very person from whom we take or to whom we yield. Yet, alas, this illusion frequently crumbles. When the taker grows satiated, or the giver abruptly withholds, a stark revelation dawns: we are no longer needed. Our offerings—be they generous or acquisitive—lose their luster, and worse still, our love itself becomes superfluous. This realization can be profoundly harrowing; for some, it proves insurmountable. They reel from disillusionment, nurse deep wounds, and lose their footing in the world. They come to doubt that it was ever love at all—if it had been, surely it would not have ended thus. Others harden into resentment, vowing never to love again, lest they endure such torment anew. Reactions vary, of course: some, with a philosophical shrug, acknowledge the deception, raise a glass of wine or a pint (perhaps more than one), shed a quiet tear, and press onward. But the truth, as ever, is more nuanced. Neither pure giving nor pure taking sustains us; we must eschew relationships defined solely by one or the other. Such one-dimensional bonds are inherently fragile, and anyone—whether the giver or the taker—who mistakes them for love is doomed to disappointment. For taking from another can feel as intoxicating as giving, both masquerading as devotion. Even those who aspire to "true love"—envisioned as a two-way street, rich with myriad dimensions of mutual exchange—often falter. Here, love is imagined as a balanced ledger: profitable for both parties, where in one realm one gives more and takes less, and in another the scales tip the opposite way. If equilibrium holds overall, allowing each to give and receive in ample measure, the bond endures, fulfilling its participants. This, they believe, is authentic love. In theory, it sings; in practice, we become ensnared in a single dimension, trapped in a tunnel from which escape seems impossible. All else fades to monochrome, and the relationship buckles under the weight of this narrow focus. For the human mind, biologically wired, cannot juggle multiple dimensions at once; we navigate them sequentially. Each is a distinct neural network, gaining potency when it intertwines with a kindred one in another soul. That fusion is a marvel—swiftly, it cascades into alignments across other networks, other realms. Thus, we say people connect through shared vanities, common woes, or mutual trials: they encounter one another in the very tunnels that bind them. The rare soul who discerns these patterns, who loves self and others enough to guide them from the depths—this is the embodiment of true love. It demands awareness of another's entrapment and the resolve to lead them out. Yet such a lover can never partake in that vaunted "true love" with others, for it rejects shared confinement in the dark. Instead, it seeks equilibrium across all dimensions, a harmony where no bond is lopsided. In the tunnel, imbalance reigns: there is the guide, charting toward light, and the lost one trailing in their wake. To the follower, it feels not like a passage but an endless cavern, devoid of exit. Only one who has emerged can perceive its shape and extend a hand. But once the light breaks through, once the tunnel is forsaken, the guide's role dissolves—and humanity, in its ingratitude, turns away. In bygone eras, our ancestors wove grand narratives, organizations, and institutions from our most intricate neural webs—the longest tunnels—of divinity, love, life's purpose, or leading multitudes. Some dubbed them "philosophies," many of which persist today. I see them otherwise; for me, philosophy is singular: the encompassing tale that fosters balanced living and affirming ties with our fellows. Death awaits us all at life's close, and what follows is the great enigma—no one among us holds the key, nor should we hasten to unlock it. One day, as our eyes close, the answer will reveal itself. For me, love's essence in this world and this life lies in relational equilibrium. I confess: I lingered long in certain tunnels (as we all must, inevitably), and even in those of others I sought to liberate, until I found my footing and grasped a hard truth—we cannot rescue everyone from every abyss. Some must navigate alone, or not at all. There may be shorter, less painful paths, but reflecting backward, I would alter nothing of mine. Today, my inner and outer worlds brim with richness and serenity; I cannot envision, nor do I wish to, any other existence. I pen these occasional reflections, immerse myself in creative endeavors, cherish my kin, and when I spy someone mired in a tunnel, I offer a gentle nudge—or, if time allows, a philosophical dialogue. When political tempests stir unease, I connect with those in the fray, discern their tunnels, apply a measured nudge here and there, then retreat to my tranquil pursuits. The more you love your near ones, the more your bonds equilibrate, the greater your felicity—for stability in relationships begets a widening circle of souls with whom you can converse on ever more topics. Life's dualities—inner and outer—blossom into paradise, the Kingdom of Heaven itself, as Christ might say. I interpret it thus, beholding it here and now, accessible to us all. Socrates glimpsed it before Him, earning whispers of a pre-Christian Christian sage. Facing death, Socrates proclaimed life's continuance; Christ echoed it, as have countless others since. Despite all I've gleaned from neuroscientists, I find myself increasingly convinced: in some form, life endures.