Trilogy on human nature (part 3)

Love’s Complexity: From Diabolical to True Love Oh, love—that eternal riddle, the spark that sets hearts ablaze or, more often than not, singes the fingers of those foolish enough to clutch it too tightly. We’ve wandered through the duality of our nature, those monsters with faintly beating hearts, and peered into the everyday shadows where evil habits slink in like uninvited guests at a garden party. Now, as we wrap up this little trilogy of the soul, let’s turn to love itself, that slippery fellow promising paradise but often delivering a comedy of errors. For love, dear reader, isn’t the rainbow of distinctions the ancient Greeks painted, with their eros here and agape there—oh no, that’s just bureaucratizing the heart, turning it into some ancient filing system where feelings get stamped and sorted. In truth, there are only two forms: the diabolical, a twisted tango of control and deception, and the true, a rare dance where partners face the music together, monsters and all. Let’s start with the diabolical kind, that sly imposter masquerading as romance, where lovers play an emotional chess game, each move aimed at checkmate. Picture the couple at dinner, him glancing at his phone while she prattles about her day—only he’s not just scrolling; he’s weaving a lie about a “work meeting” to cover how, in his youth, he chased sneaky flirtations and now, in older age, craves a hearty meal of meat and fats, which he swore to his partner he’d given up. She senses it, of course, but instead of confronting him, she smiles sweetly and “accidentally” drops his favorite mug the next morning, blaming the cat, or indulges in one of a myriad other misdeeds to restore her sense of balance. It’s hilarious in its pettiness, like a bad sitcom where the audience laughs at the absurdity, but in real life, it’s the slow poison of eroded trust. Or take the classic: the jealous partner who “loves” so much they install tracking apps on phones, turning affection into surveillance. “I just care about your safety,” they say, scrolling through texts like a detective in a noir film, only to explode over an innocent message from a coworker. Literature’s chock-full of these gems—think of Othello, driven mad by whispers, or modern tales like that movie where the guy pretends to be a millionaire to win the girl, only for the facade to crumble in a cascade of lies and awkward revelations. And don’t get me started on the office romances in series, where “soulmates” sabotage each other’s promotions while whispering sweet nothings over coffee. It’s almost comical, how these “lovers” hide their inner monsters at home, donning a saintly mask for the relationship, only to unleash the beasts outside—cheating, gossiping, or climbing corporate ladders on broken backs. One wonders if they’re in love or just auditioning for a spy thriller, where the real plot twist is how much destruction they wreak in the name of “passion.” Diabolical love thrives in this duality, a farce where partners control through deception, their egos swelling like overripe fruit ready to burst. Imagine the woman who “loves” her man so dearly she critiques his every outfit, molding him into her ideal puppet, while he “adores” her by isolating her from friends, branding them “bad influences.” It’s like a twisted vaudeville act: she laughs at his jokes in public but mocks them in private, he buys flowers to apologize for rages born of hidden insecurities. Movies retell this endlessly—the rom-com where the lead lies about his job to impress, only for the truth to erupt in slapstick chaos, or the drama where infidelity lurks behind “business trips,” leaving a trail of shattered illusions. And in real life? The stories are legion: couples who argue over finances not out of need but to assert dominance, each hoarding secrets like squirrels with nuts, all while professing undying devotion. The humor here is dark, deadpan—picture a man explaining to his wife why he’s late, spinning a tale so elaborate it rivals a spy novel, only for her to nod knowingly, plotting her own quiet revenge. It’s absurd, this dance of destruction, where love becomes a battlefield of false identities, monsters lurking just beneath the surface, ready to pounce when the mask slips. Yet, for all its comedic tragedy, diabolical love isn’t inevitable; it’s the shadow cast by our refusal to face the light of true love. True love, that elevated realm, doesn’t banish the monsters—oh no, it invites them to the table, openly displayed so partners can accept the whole, warts and all. It’s not a hierarchy of forms, complicating the heart with labels as the Greeks did, but a simple choice: to love authentically, governing those inner beasts together rather than letting them run wild. In true love, you don’t hide jealousy or petty impulses; you confess them with a wry smile, saying, “Look at this foolish monster of mine, trying to stir trouble—shall we tame it over tea?” It’s humorous in its honesty, like admitting you’re terrible at cooking but burning dinner anyway, laughing as you order takeout, turning flaws into shared adventures. True love elevates through acceptance, not illusion. We acknowledge the reality of monsters in us and our beloved—the quick temper, the lingering doubts, the bad diet, and so on—and we tolerate them in action but never legitimize them. For every inch we legitimize, they grow, devouring the heart’s garden. Instead, we bring them into the light and fight them individually and together by denying them legitimacy: he shares his fear of inadequacy, she her envy of others’ lives and other quirks, and together they prune the weeds, nurturing blooms of mutual trust. Literature whispers this too—the quiet devotion in tales where lovers face storms side by side, not pretending perfection but embracing imperfection. In movies, it’s the couple who argues fiercely yet rebuilds, their humor defusing the diabolical before it takes root. Real life echoes: partners who discuss past wounds openly, governing old habits so they don’t poison the present. It’s not bureaucracy, this love—no forms to file for philia or eros—but a profound simplicity: two souls, monsters included, choosing daily to rise above, to love without control, to allow without legitimizing, even to accept without surrender.

To strive together toward God, to bravely gaze into the abyss and the infinite beauty of this reality, and to seek help from their surroundings where both are too weak. That is the love worth living for, the love one gives thanks for on their deathbed.

This true love isn’t saintly denial but courageous governance, a partnership where monsters are seen, named, and subdued. We accept their existence as part of our duality, but in practice, we battle them relentlessly, lest they grow and darken the heart. The best way to fight them, of course, is with humor, for nothing cuts the weeds better or holds a clearer mirror to the monster than a well-timed, soul-deep jest. God has an unparalleled sense of humor. Humor is the antidote to diabolical farce, turning life’s tragedy into a comedy and a joyful epic. And so, as we close this trilogy, let us ponder: in our relationships, do we hide or reveal? For in revelation lies the path to a love that’s not just enduring but truly human—monsters tamed, hearts enlarged, and perhaps a chuckle along the way at how absurdly close we came to the diabolical detour that leads to ruin. Let us not, then, avert our gaze from the mirror of our affections. Love is not a spectrum of complications but a choice between shadow and light in us and our relationships. To live well in love is to see these truths clearly, to wrestle with the monsters together until we master them, forging a bond where diabolical whispers fade and true harmony becomes natural and habitual.