L and I were discussing jealousy earlier, when she stated that I'm not the type of person to ever feel jealous anyway.
A few hours later, as I muse about her remark, I can't make my mind up whether or not it is something I should feel proud of.
I consider jealousy to be the painful twist of the flesh which proves you are alive; the recoil of the gun which is powerful enough to kick you to the floor and lodge the bullet metres from where it would otherwise have landed.
If the wellspring of protectionism and worry fails to trigger when your loved one is contemplated, then when shall I feel anything at all?
In life itself, there are levels of necessity. When everything else is stripped away, I must still breathe, I must still drink water. Beyond that, some food and protection from the elements is a good idea. Further still, something to distract me from the drudgery of existence is wished for.
So too is it with love. First of all, the gun must recoil. Then one would hope for physical attraction, shared interests, something to talk about; greater still is the need for unity, intimacy and love. Without the shocking kick of jealousy, though, the higher aspirations are no more than the turning of a deluded mind.
The excesses of jealous behaviour require the most shame-faced apologies, but these are a price worth paying for the absence of torpor. Foolish indeed is the man who dies for his religion or for his country - abstract, shifting machines of contradiction - but it's preferable to believing in nothing at all.
