Einstein once wrote that the definition of insanity is repeating the same thing and expecting a different result. True as he may have been about a lot of scientific principles, here I am saying otherwise: because for about half of the eleven months that we’ve been together, I have been consistently ending these letters with I “Love you madly”. Despite what Einstein said, despite all he was right about, I’d argue that this constant of love is just about the only sane thing there is in this world, my world.
The Universe is different than Einstein predicted, and we are its proof. Besides all the patterns, symmetries and elegance around, we were the chaos that resulted from Cupid’s discarded arrows. One night we thought that the pattern of our lives was boring enough, so we met, we kissed, and we loved, and we thought that would be the end of it.
In the beginning, our beginning, there wasn’t light, but darkness, and what we believed to be the end of time. We saw each other as blurry inconsistencies, passing thoughts and feelings and a way to live if only for a second. It wasn’t divine, or preordained, or really any of the romantic jargon. It was a common accident, a burp when one means to sneeze, a brushing of shoulders that turned into a kiss that turned into us that turned into something beyond that. Love.
This is why Einstein was wrong because even though everything in our body told us not be together, we are, and the Universe is different because of it. We are the grand unification theory – the slippery tying bond to all that ever was and all that ever will be. Us. Two becoming, connecting, living, acting, and breathing as one for one because of one.
It’s impossible, I know. But during that first night, I’m sure that we lived a million tiny different lives and dreamed of a million tiny different possibilities in between the breaths and bare spaces of our bodies. A wave of time spread before us in all directions and we rode neither wave in front of us, but decided to make our own.
That night, we made a splash in the Milky Way. I dove. You cannonballed. And together, we swam in the ripples we made.
There are times during these months that we have been near to drowning. Neither of us has more than the other, mind you; both of us have equally. If one of us feels the pull of water in their lungs, they panic and any extending hand, whether helpful or not, is pulled in the chaos. After a fight or a bruise or a shamed dignity, two people find themselves sinking instead of one.
This hasn’t happened fully yet and still, somehow, maybe because our hearts expand or our minds lost their rationality, we float on.
The following day after our first night when we learned that time was relative because hadn’t we already spend thousands of lives together and wasn’t there the God’s particle in our kiss, we went to a waterfall and stood at the top and felt like we were swimming in the blue sky above us and the green waters below us.
Things were moving too quickly but at the same time, they were just right. I don’t understand it to this day and I don’t think I’m supposed to. I think that’s the point of this letter and all the others: despite trying to copy the patterns of the known Universe, there is still mystery, still places left unfinished since the time of the creation. You are one of them, and I love watching you grow.
So while Einstein may be right and insanity may very well be repeating the same thing but expecting a different result, I’d rather be insane than reasonable if that means that you’re there with me. That way when it comes down to it, I can write about physics, about gravitation, and about how things will tend to come together even if they are apart, when really, I am not writing about any of those things. In between the spaces of my words, I am writing about you.
Love you madly,