There is undeniable truth in the old proverb, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” The heartbreak of separation from a lover is, without doubt, the driving force behind many romantic reunions. But further down the road, long after the reunion, there is something hidden — a cruel truth that is often left untouched, unvisited by authors because it doesn’t make for a good story and ignored by the lovers whom it affects.
More often than not, fondness makes the heart grow absent.
There can’t be anything inherently wrong with fondness, you protest. After all, passionate love can only last so long before it tires, gasping for breath, lacking the strength to carry on. And fondness is simply the next step in the natural progression of love.
But what happens when fondness takes its toll, when the savageness of romance is tamed?
If there is one thing the world has shown us it is that fondness rarely lasts — it is the doom of lovers. It is not wild enough to survive when hardships arise and it drowns in the heaviness of tribulation. What, then, can you do?
You have a choice.
You can rebel against fondness; love so violently and live so wildly that it can never appear; push on for as long as you possibly can until your body fails, like Pheidippides as he raced from Marathon to Athens, running with all his might for something he believed in. You can love so fiercely that it kills you.
Or you can let fondness grip you in its comfortable embrace, a fate worse than death itself. To be sure, you will endure for far longer — but your love will rot away and your snarl will be reduced to a whisper.
You will become as Pheidippides would have been if he had slowly jogged to Athens —