Notes from the (London) Underground
Ruminations on heartbreak
I am a sick man. I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased.
It’s hard to imagine anywhere more depressing than sitting on the London Underground between the hours of 11pm and 5am on a weekday thinking about losing the woman you thought you’d marry, perhaps it’s only matched by being there during peak hour. But that’s where I found myself when I started writing about my forlorn heart many months ago.
In the dark labyrinth of the underground, the air is thick and difficult to breathe(as it is at all hours of the day on the deep tunnel tube network). Under the harsh lighting, the once crowded seats reveal their squalor. The weary souls present are usually either a bit intoxicated from a night of revelry or looking dishevelled and ghoulish from another exhausting day fighting in the urban trenches. The Nazgul like screech of the tube at the best of times makes one long for the return of the horse riding, letter writing, pre industrialised society of the Georgian era you see scattered around London. At the ungodly hours of the early morning, the mundane horrors of the modern commute reveal an infernal desolation of the human soul, akin to being in Dante’s 7th circle of hell, and in the Summer it’s just as hot.
Those of us brave enough to put ourselves through this anguish find collective refuge in staring blankly down at our phones, despite having no cellular service. From the comfort of a lit up screen, we shield ourselves from the disconcerting reality that we each believe our nocturnal companions to be suspicious and unseemly characters. Dostoevsky's man from underground finds his contemporary manifestation in the tortured symphony of the London tube, where the wretchedness of the human soul is laid bare amidst the clatter and clangs of a mechanical, subterranean purgatory.
It’s probably true that the tube is not quite as dramatic as described. In fact, it’s easily the most efficient way to get around London and you realise what a pivotal piece of infrastructure it is when the city comes to a complete standstill at any hint of a rail strike. A few months ago I found myself no longer able to cycle or walk where I needed to go and was confronted with repeat journeys on the late night tube as I moved to London’s northern suburbs to begin counting down my final days living abroad.
Those tube journeys in my last weeks in London were brutal. At those hours on the train, perhaps more so after a few beers, you’ll think about almost anything to distract yourself from the lugubrious locomotive journey home. Mostly I thought about silly things like how Cosette’s absentee biological father is the real and unspoken villain in Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. Often though, when confronted with the pure human honesty that the late night tube forces upon oneself, more poignantly I thought about what brought me to London and just how close I got to the fairy-tale ending I had hoped for only to have it end in heartbreak.
On my second morning in London, New Year’s Day 2022, I made my way from my hotel to Aldgate station to begin my journey as a tourist. It was 6am, freezing cold, drizzling, and pitch black out. A typical Winter’s morning in London and a stark contrast from the hot Australian Summer I had just left behind. Shortly after leaving I was accosted by a man, a self described rough sleeper, asking for 20 pounds. Startled, I told him I had no cash and was in a rush. He followed me for the entirety of my walk telling me where all the ATMs in the area were as he got angrier. What I found particularly frightening about the encounter was that he was hiding his hand on the inside of his jacket, and I, having made the mistake of watching the news story the evening before about London breaking its annual record for teenage stabbings, believed he was potentially concealing a weapon. I was genuinely scared and I picked up my pace as the abuse continued.
Upon reaching the station, tube staff stopped him, asked if I was ok, and told him to leave. It’s likely I wasn’t going to be mugged and this was just a man in an incredibly desperate situation, a sight all too common in London’s streets. For my first real taste of city life, having come from the calmness and serenity of the Blue Mountains, it was very much a “we’re not in Kansas anymore” moment. Unfortunately, it wasn’t even the scariest meeting of the day.
I went to mass at St James’ Church, Spanish Place, and afterwards met, for the first time in person, Sunny(not her real name), my ex girlfriend. Needless to say she was not happy to see me. Only 24 hours earlier she had learned I was coming to, let alone living in the United Kingdom. I’d failed and lost her trust as we tried dating long distance after meeting on Twitter during the covid pandemic in 2021, so it was easy to understand her cold greeting. We spoke briefly, mainly about her recent baptism and first experiences with the sacraments. I didn’t make any grand professions of love but I did somehow managed to ramble about how strange I found the silent pedestrian crossings in London. How do blind people safely cross the road in such situations? She told me to go home and forget about her.
It was a moment I had thought a lot about in the months leading up to my move. What would I say to her? What would she say to me? Could I really say that I had changed and was worthy of her love? When the time came I was completely stunned - being just happy to see her beautiful face and hear her voice. I had braced myself for an unwelcoming reception, yet the tone of her words still caught me off guard. I returned to my hotel distraught after a disastrous first day, just in time to catch the 1995 BBC production of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. I fell asleep shortly after Mr Darcy declared how much he admired Elizabeth Bennet despite it going against his better judgement. A suspiciously familiar sentiment despite quite different circumstances.
The next day I went to the National Gallery to actually do something “touristy” and clear my mind. To my amazement I practically had the entire place to myself. With the world still recovering from the covid 19 pandemic tourism was not exactly thriving. I was the first inside when the Gallery opened at 10am and it was 30 minutes before I even saw another person. There I was, alone with some of the most famous masterpieces ever painted, including a variety of Monet’s work, an assortment of Flemish landscapes, and Van Gogh’s sunflowers. It was a deeply spiritual moment in my life to have such a privilege. I was particularly stirred by the painting St Francis in Meditation by Spaniard Francisco de Zurbarán.
The limited colour palette and simple, solid background puts your full focus on the Saint, a man who himself lived and desired a simple, spiritually focussed life. The object of his focus is on his meditative dialogue with God, which through the imagery of the skull we know is on death and the crucifixion. Zurbarán’s masterful use of shadow conveys how Saint Francis is moved in prayer, and it moved me as I stood before it. I’ve stood there and looked at it many times since, and each time I’m drawn into prayer and contemplation. Have I ever been so moved in prayer? Fortunately for me it’s one of the many paintings in the gallery that people choose to not stop and take photos in front of.
As someone who primarily connects with God through quiet, unstructured prayer, I often look for opportunities to meditate. At what was a crucial moment of my life, discovering that a work of art can draw me into the contemplative state was wonderful. The feeling would be replicated at museums around London during my time there, particularly during the first few months when they were still mostly empty.
Sunny and I had a few conversations in the weeks of January, certainly more positive than our first meeting but still largely uncomfortable. I was convinced she was hanging out with me out of pity, but I was grateful for the opportunity to at least spend some time with her. We made the trip to Highgate Cemetery for what I’d consider our first outing together as friends. Few words were spoken between us in the hours we walked through the beautiful grounds of Highgate, the atmosphere heavy with trepidation. I will say cemeteries are a great spot for a date, they encourage prayer, seizing the opportunities presented to you, and for Catholics there’s nothing more romantic than reminding each other that one day you’ll both die in the hope of the Resurrection. Valentine’s Day falls on Ash Wednesday this year. There’s a lot of love in shared sacrifice - his and her’s sack cloths anyone?
There are lots of well known people buried at Highgate. The most famous grave is that of one Mr Karl Marx, whose grandiose headstone towers over its surrounds and is impossible to miss. The surrounding graves are largely occupied by those of fellow communists from around the world. I wonder how Marx feels about property rights attached to burial plots?
We found a Turkish coffee shop to sit in afterwards as she educated me about the varieties of Middle Eastern tea - she is proudly Persian. We chatted there for over an hour and the romantic confusion began. Sunny told me I felt like “home,” that being around me made her comfortable, but there was the fear that I would hurt her again. Could I provide the stability and trust required for a lasting union? She was incredibly confused about her feelings and I did my best to understand. We would initially spend time together rather infrequently and for us to be able to continue she wanted me to seek help from her parish priest (now a very good friend of mine) to which I obliged.
Those first weeks became the standard for what life would be like for me in London: contemplative, wandering solitude as I longed, hoped, and yearned for contentment. I was there for her, nothing else mattered, and so I stayed put in my tiny flat in South Kensington patiently waiting for when I could spend time with her.
The next few months was an on again/off again friendship/romance that could rival Ross and Rachel from Friends in the will they/won’t they sweepstakes. Together we went to the museums, the zoo, mass, and fed ducks in the park amidst all kinds of disagreements and in-depth emotionally charged discussions about our future. It was an immensely difficult, confusing time for both of us. The decision was made, against my objections, that during Lent, Sunny and I wouldn’t talk and instead we would use that time to reflect and pray on what we thought was best for the two of us.
Things had so far gone better than I anticipated when I first arrived in London, but the seemingly never ending, but also justifiable confusion was taking a toll on my mental health. Fortunately, my proximity to the spectacular London Oratory made spending time in prayer and adoration easy. It became my spiritual home and I was a frequent attendee at the young adults group there. I became lifelong friends with some wonderful Catholics at these events over the two years, including the host Brother Joseph (now father!) of the Oratory.
During this time I also took the opportunity presented to me to start learning how to serve the Dominican Rite of the mass at the Rosary Shrine in London, Sunny’s parish. I’d never considered serving mass before but I very quickly grew to love it. The men there who serve and train other servers are some of the finest I’ve ever met, complimented by a selection of sound Dominican priests. During Lent I started serving the mass which had a staggering impact on my appreciation of the crucifixion and the Eucharist. I loved serving and as someone who fidgets, having to carry a thurible in my hands during mass was helpful.
I was blessed to have attended many different rites of the Catholic mass in London, if I recall correctly I attended:
Novus Ordo or Ordinary Form, in all its different styles
Traditional Latin Mass, sung and low
Dominican Rite, sung and low
Coptic Rite
Syro-Malabar Rite
Ukrainian Rite
Ordinariate Rite
Ethiopian Rite
I’m so lucky to have had the opportunity to experience the full diversity of the Catholic faith in a single city. For me though nothing compared to when I was able to serve the Dominican Rite. To be right there at the foot of the cross, to be close enough to hear the words of consecration whispered by the priest nourished my soul. Like the incarnation, the sacrificial body, blood, soul, and divinity of Jesus Christ in the gift of the Eucharist is an incomprehensible mystery to the human mind. Being that close to the wondrous miracle of transubstantiation was a welcome balm to my wickedness.
Through my own suffering, and having literally walked the Via Dolorosa the day after I was sexually abused, the Passion of Our Lord has always held a very heavy and prominent place in my mind. It’s where I feel most at ease talking to Jesus. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Christ tells us “My soul is sorrowful even unto death” (Matthew 26:38:). It’s a very human moment. He knew what was to happen in the coming hours and was tormented by it; the physical torture he would endure, the desertion of his friends, the denial of Peter, and the trauma of his own death as he carried the iniquities of all humanity. He also knew that in three days the tomb would be empty as Heaven and Earth rejoice at his victory over death, and yet he still felt untold mental anguish in the Garden - something to remember the next time you’re feeling down.
At Calvary, the Son of God takes his place upon the cross as a victim of humanity’s sinfulness, and is given up for death. The sky blackens and just as hope seems to fade, in humanity’s darkest hour, Christ reminds the penitent thief of God’s mercy and eventual triumph. From the cross, the church is born. Jesus prays Psalm 22, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” It’s another moment of profound human vulnerability from the Lord of life at his hour of death. Christ’s perfect sorrowful soul, crushed from the weight of his mission, in the ultimate act of faith, makes us aware that God is present, that he can hear us, right when he seems vanquished. It reveals Jesus’ trust in God’s divine plan, as Benedict XVI puts it:
“It is the victory of faith which can transform death into the gift of life, the abyss of sorrow into a source of hope.”
This profound mystery of faith is perpetually present in the celebration of the Eucharist, where Jesus' sacrificial love is made tangible in the sacramental bread and wine. St Margaret Mary could affirm:
“Jesus is found in the Sacrament of the Eucharist, in which love keeps Him tied like a victim, always ready to be sacrificed for the glory of His Father, and for our salvation.”
Amidst the turmoil of my romantic struggles and loneliness in London, the powerful encounter I had serving the mass with the sacramental grace found in the Eucharist led to greater appreciation of the Passion of Our Lord. I always believed in the miracle of the Eucharist, but like other Cradle Catholics I perhaps took the gift of the living presence of Christ for granted. This was something I was able to discuss with the fine Dominican priests of this parish and also the great Christian men whom I became friends with, further deepening my understanding of the sacrament. Serving the mass enabled me to feel part of a community of Christian fellowship, something I had never fully experienced before and largely cured my loneliness.
After Lent not much changed between Sunny and I. The indecisiveness was still there and no permanent decisions were made. Over the UK Summer we started going on “dates,” or at least I was finally able to start calling them that. We started to pray out loud together again, which is more intimate than any kiss and not something she did lightly. I would always catch the tube home with her, despite it being an hour out of the way - those quiet moments on the underground were some of my favourites. Sitting together silently, seeing her smile in the reflection as she rested her head on my shoulder brought both of us a moment of contentment amidst the chaos.
Despite how much fun we had, there was always something wrong that would be brought up afterwards. I could never get it just right. Maybe she was holding onto a fantasy and the reality of who I am was disappointing, maybe I was making stupid mistakes? We had tentative plans to travel, to explore the romantic European cities of Rome, Paris, and Birmingham together. Those plans among many others never came to fruition and that Summer the only travelling I did was for the uninspired reason of work to the towns of Reading and Southampton.
The town of Reading, 40 miles west of London, is not a particularly exciting place to visit. Having been shipped there for a week to partake in a corporate induction I had a limited chance to explore. There’s a small museum which was completely empty when I visited and then I went to the ruins of Reading Abbey, burial site of King Henry I, the 4th son of William the Conqueror. Henry I built the Abbey, which was destroyed in the 16th century during Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries, to be a house of prayer specifically for the salvation of his and his family’s souls. It all sounds very Christian and wholesome until you discover he had over 20 illegitimate children with upwards of 10 mistresses. He might need more prayers than the few I offered. Alas, let he who has only 9 mistresses cast the first stone.
Given the fragility of our relationship, any kind of distance was difficult. While in Southampton for a week I missed Sunny’s baptismal anniversary celebrations and it was clear how hurt both of us were that I couldn’t be there. With me scheduled to return to Australia for a wedding in mid September the concerns about being apart for weeks caused some tension. I had asked her to come with me, and I genuinely believe she wanted to, but such were the demands of her family that it wasn’t feasible to do so.
At that time I should have been far more sensitive to how difficult things were for her. She was acting explicitly against her family’s wishes by even spending time with me. I took that for granted. She told me that my betrayal and search for external validation the year prior would always be on her mind and she was unsure if she would ever feel safe with me, despite longing for it so much. It was a helpless situation, and in earnest something I can admit I should have given more thought to before moving across the world to prove my affections for her. I was caught up in the romance without thinking of the reality. I was in denial, clinging onto the feelings we had for each other and I should have walked away much sooner than I did.
That Summer we did become best friends again. It was a blissful time. She showed her incredibly generous and merciful heart, and I was reminded why I loved her everyday. Christian friendship is a great gift. By September when we went to Poland for her to be the Maid of honour at her friend’s wedding, things were hopeful for us. We both started to believe we could make it work. But that word “friend” would cause problems. It was made clear to me the night before the wedding we weren’t in a relationship. She told me to ask her to be my girlfriend, so I did, only to be rejected. We laughed, then she told me to ask her again…same result. And again. I was genuinely hurt.
At the reception someone asked how long we had been together, and I made the point to say that we’re just “special friends.” Not my best choice of words but it was true, and given the night before I was bitter and beginning to feel incredibly exhausted with our situation. There was no simple way to explain it to others, I would have said “we’re dating” but apparently there are connotations to such a phrase in modern times. I’d receive mostly silent treatment for the rest of the evening. It felt like the final straw for her, she was done hearing my explanations.
I still had fun at the reception and the French menu was delightful; the lobster bisque being particularly memorable. But I’ll never forgive myself for ruining someone’s wedding day with my relationship drama. On the bus ride home, I changed my flight to the afternoon, meaning we wouldn’t be travelling back to London together and then selfishly I didn’t give her my suit jacket as we stood in the freezing cold rain at 3am. From that moment things were terminal.
Things were over only for Sunny to change her mind at my begging when I actually had to board the plane to return to Sydney two days later. When I look back now, I think we had developed a type of co dependent relationship whereby as soon as we realised the other might actually walk away forever we’d do whatever we could to get them to come back. It certainly wasn’t healthy.
The distance was difficult and we had a severe breakdown in communication. Again, things looked over for us. Sunny told me to “pack light,” that she wouldn’t be meeting me at the airport when I returned, only for her to surprise me at the airport. I was perplexed more than grateful. The next 6 weeks were some of the most exhausting of my life. I was told repeatedly that I wasn’t a good man, that I didn’t know what love is, that a relationship wouldn’t work between us and then the next day told that she wanted to be in a relationship with me despite those things. How could she love me if she felt those things? Neither of us wanted to be the one to walk away and it was making us emotionally unstable.
By late October I had managed to tear my ACL and we had convinced one another of our initial positions: she believed we could work things out as a couple; I believed we were never going to be able to get past our history and would be stuck as great friends. We wandered around Ikea together one day, and afterwards had a painful conversation. I hadn’t intended for things to end between us when we started talking but upon realising how miserable both of us were, that’s where we ended up. I was walking away from the woman I had moved 16,000kms to be with.
To her, I wasn’t to be trusted, and rightfully so given my cheating and habitual lying back in mid 2021 when we dated long distance. It’s a testament to her Christian faith that she found the strength to forgive me. The last time I spoke to her, on 4th November 2022, outside Corpus Christi, Maiden Lane, in a moment of intense vulnerability she finally said it: “I trust you, Samuel.” Sadly, it was too late and it didn’t matter. Deep down we both knew we had to part and she thanked me for making the decision she couldn’t. This never would have been a happy, grace filled marriage. We’re very different people with different outlooks, and that’s something that out of pride I refused to acknowledge for too long. Given what I had sacrificed to be there I didn’t want to admit that we could never overcome the chasm of distrust I put in motion with my behaviour the year prior. We were never going to be able to love each other the way we needed to after that. We did love each other, at times irrepressibly, which prevented both of us from seeing that the best way for us to will the good of the other was by separating.
This wasn’t a ‘conscious uncoupling’ that you hear from celebrities, it was two broken people desperately fighting for love and friendship, making monumental sacrifices for each other only to feel like they were unnoticed. As Sunny constantly reminded me, marriage is a type of crucifixion, you carry each other’s burdens till death, but with the crucified Lord at the centre of the union, if husband and wife kneel at the foot of the cross together, there is always a source of love, forgiveness, and healing amidst those hardships. In the end, our inability to acknowledge the weight of each other’s sacrifice nor unite our suffering together with Christ’s would be our undoing.
I let her make her demands, I obliged her even when I often disagreed. I was passive when I ought not to be and I realised this couldn’t possibly be what God desires for us or for anyone. He does not wish for me to let myself suffocate and be bitter in silence, to put up with being lectured to that I don’t know what love is. Nor does God desire for her to be with someone who isn’t the honourable, Catholic man he advertised himself as, who can’t prove his virtue, who when the stakes actually matter fails and is wilfully dishonest.
In the weeks that followed, bitter messages were exchanged between proxies and she asked that I stop attending her parish. I wouldn’t be able to serve mass there anymore but I obliged as I didn’t wish to cause her anymore pain. The great friendship we once shared was no more and any hope of reconciliation between us lost. I guess that’s part of the pain in heartbreak, seeing just how quickly what once felt irrepressible is suddenly irredeemable.
As the crisp chill of Winter approached I was in a spiritually bleak state. In the deep recesses of the underground, I sat alone staring at my reflection. Any sign of joy on my face dissipating at the painful recollection of the smiling face that used to look back at me from the smudged glass. Those who only glanced around the carriage would have seen the blank expression of man with his headphones in. But anyone who made eye contact would have seen the paranoia, the dread, and a part of my soul that I wished to hide, stripped and exposed. As an extremely private man of few words, my eyes betrayed me and revealed my grief.
There was no noise coming out of my headphones. Maybe I had hoped to block out my intrusive thoughts but was too late. The lifeless stare seen in my own reflection could only leave me wandering, who is that man? Why can’t he be happy? I only recently admitted to a friend that every time I have gotten close to happiness in the last decade I find a way to self sabotage…is that what I did here?
These weren’t things I wanted to be contemplating. Almost manically I thought about whatever I could to distract my mind…Do they clean the seats on the tube? Will Leeds sign a striker in January? Why have filmmakers lost the art of telling a story without stuffing the message right in your face? Why don’t museums have a day of the week where you can’t use your phone? How did ABBA manage to make the first 30 seconds of every single one of their songs so iconic? (seriously go and listen) Would I have kept watch with Christ in the Garden? Why am I on the tube when I hate it so much?
I got off the train and took the long way home. I didn’t hate the tube, I hated the man I saw in my reflection whilst on it. Wandering or cycling the streets alone late in the night had become a hobby of mine in London. In the darkness of night the dystopian capitalistic city is mostly peaceful, the high pitched buzz from the convoy of mopeds whipping around delivering late night snacks the only interruption to my false solitude - Gosh they’re annoying.
In the immediate aftermath I was sick, bitter, drinking too much, and deeply grieving lost love. She thinks I’m unscathed. I felt weak, disheartened and as if I didn’t have the capacity to love like Christ did when he died on the cross. Did I ever? I behaved recklessly, quite a few times I prayed a Rosary while cycling under the influence in the pouring rain through heavy traffic without a helmet. I wanted to feel a fear that wasn’t related to the crushing pain of heartbreak. Or maybe I was challenging God to reward my faith with His protection? I was panicking, and growing in my resentment of the modern world. Maybe I am more like Dostoevsky’s man from underground than I thought? I couldn’t sleep, I needed an outlet for my grief having let it simmer deep within me. So I went to the places I last felt contentment: the cemetery, the museums, and to the foot of the cross.
Away from Christ, every heart beat was a relentless reminder that I was getting further from the peace I had so greatly desired for years. In adoration with Our Lord, I found refuge from the abject wretchedness I saw in my reflection. It was in his presence that I realised it was Christ I should have flown to, not my ex girlfriend a year earlier. My sins tormented me and the woman I professed to love, but more than that, they offended God and perhaps the guttural sickness I constantly felt was retribution for my pride. Me showing up in London only aggravated that anguish when we both still needed time to heal. I’d been asking the wrong person for forgiveness all those months. But could I ever forgive myself?
Given it was the month of All Souls I made the effort to go to the nearby Brompton Cemetery every day to pray for the dead. This became a part of my daily routine through Easter. In the cemetery, my prayers were heard by God as a mere whisper through my trembling voice amidst the solemn silence. There among the rows of graves my grief poured out. The hallowed ground soaked up my tears as I recalled the joy, laughter, friendship, and love that had filled my heart the past Summer, and that it was now lost. Sunny is even more melancholic than I, what kind of unimaginable pain is she in right now?
I spent day after day walking the grounds, reading the names on the tombstones, finding out what I could about the lives of the deceased. My favourite tombstone is pictured above. Pilot Officer Bailey died in an aircraft accident whilst serving during World War 2. It’s one of the many graves of service personnel at Brompton, and I could find stories in the national archives for most of them. The image of the crucifixion really resonated with me and looked absolutely stunning on the one day of snow London had while I was there. It’s exactly how I want my tombstone to look. Would anyone come to my grave?
Also buried there is Dylan Freeman (2010-2020), a young disabled boy and an indirect victim of the pandemic. History will not be kind to those years. Dylan’s mother was unable to provide the necessary care for her son during lockdown. She was driven insane and strangled him. She pleaded guilty to manslaughter with “diminished responsibility.” I can’t articulate how much reading this boy’s story broke me when I came across his grave in this time. How could such a senseless, unimaginable tragedy befall one so innocent, so vulnerable?
When I wasn’t finding new people to pray for, I was taking refuge under the leaves of an ancient yew tree. These trees can live for thousands of years, and so they’re often planted in cemeteries as a symbol of everlasting life. For me there, time stood still. My restless heart found the shelter to be vulnerable it so desperately needed. I could finally confront the dread and paranoia I’d seen in my reflection on the underground that I’d been running away from. With each tear that fell upon that sacred ground, I began to let go of the pain that was consuming me, burying my heartbreak in the cemetery beneath the roots of the tree, embracing the promise of redemption and the hope of resurrection for the departed.
Heartbreak is utterly devastating. It cuts and scars the soul in an inexpressible way, leaving behind splinters of lost hope. It leaves you paranoid that everything in your life is falling apart, that you can’t do anything right, that you lack the capabilities and necessities to love and be loved. It’s a visceral reminder of vulnerability, echoing the lamentations of Christ and the Psalms. In the midst of this pain we’re reminded of our susceptibility to sin and how it separates us from God.
Yet from the darkness, the light can shine most brightly. While the scars of heartbreak may linger, they serve as sacred reminders of our shared journey toward salvation. Heartbreak is a good sadness. It’s a desire to love. The scars evidence that you have the will to sacrifice yourself for the good of the other, that you would carry their cross. And it should remind us of the most important times of our short lives to pray, “now and at the hour of our death.”
Anyone who has been in love knows it was all worth it. The pain, the sacrifices, the crippling lonely nights, the long trips on the horrifying late night tube after escorting her home…I’d do it all again. Without heartbreak there can be no love, without darkness there can be no light, and without the crucifixion there can be no resurrection.
And so, gentlemen, I tell you to be sincere in all that you do. Fall in love, make a fool of yourself, and tell a woman those words that she’s been desperate to hear since she read it in Pride and Prejudice,
“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
But only if you can live the words earnestly. Only if you can prove your virtue when challenged to do so, because you will be challenged. Look to the cross, love is a verb. And it’s worth it. It satiates the soul like nothing else on this planet, so seize the day and love freely, and without reservation. The only promise in life is God’s love and mercy. The rest is up to you.
Pray for me, and pray for Sunny.
“You know, we thank some people for merely living at the same time as we do. I thank you for the fact that I met you, that I will remember you for all my life!” - Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights
If you’re already subscribed, then thank you for your continued support. It encourages me to keep writing. If you enjoyed what you read, then please share it with someone else you think will also enjoy it.
Much of this post was written listening to the attached piece of music. Rachmaninov’s Adagio from Symphony No. 2 is in my highly unqualified opinion the most romantic piece of music ever written. Each note is a whisper of passion that melts the soul. It’s the sound of falling in love. And so I encourage you to be romantic and have a listen.
Samuel, I have been lurking and reading your updates since the first, and they never fail to utterly devastate me. I very much hope you keep writing, and writing, and writing.