Deconstructing

They say that “you never forget your first love,” but I find that argument convoluted. My chief concern with this axiom lies mostly in semantics: I mean, how do you define “your first love?” Is it based merely upon chronology? Is intensity the defining factor? Maturity? Or is it measured by how acutely your heart breaks when the relationship ends? What are the essential properties of a “first love?”
The definition of “first love” is intangible, varying, and impossible to express; it seems absurd to even try. But I do.
I could betray my roots as a student of English Literature, and apply deconstructionist theory to the idea of love; I could talk about how the definition of love is always shifting and adapting to the constantly evolving system of definitions of words around it; I could talk about love’s différance, how it is never one thing or another, but always somewhere in between; I could quote Derrida. But I won’t. I will say, however, that defining your “first love” is like defining your “best moment;” because you never stop living, you continue to accumulate experiences. The “best moment” of your 12 year old self is usurped by the “best moment” you had when you were 16, and that moment is replaced by a later moment, and so on and so forth. Similarly, because you never stop loving, your definition of love is constantly evolving, and what was certainly love when you were 12 was, in retrospect, only infatuation. Thus, each successive love is nullified, or diminished by its successor. So, how do you pinpoint your “first love,” since your notion of love is inconstant?

Three Vignettes. One idea.

1.
It’s not the first thing you notice when you walk in. It’s subtler than that, more nuanced. It hides itself behind the dusty, almost burnt-plastic smell of electric heating, waiting until you’ve closed the door behind you. It lurks there, until you’re several feet into the kitchen. Then the individual elements of the overall aroma become distinguishable, and the scent becomes overwhelming.
There’s the powdery stench of the rotten flowers, decomposing in their plastic pitcher vase, pollen coating the counter space (and everything else) around them. There’s the musky, stale smell of coffee that has been sitting in the pot for several weeks, a layer of blistery mold growing on top of it, like algae on a pond. There’s the acidic tinge of vinegar wafting from the pasta salad in the rubbish; the smell of a jar of minced garlic, left open on the counter for god knows how long; the powerful, if not imagined scent of the dead spiders, frozen, mid-scurry, in the innumerable spider traps around the apartment.
This is the fetor of depression. This is what it smells like to give up.

I want to clean. I really do. I’m sick of the filth, the clutter, the absolute rank of my apartment. But at this point it’s become an Augean task, an undertaking of massive proportions. And I don’t have the energy. This is worse than just being lazy; it’s complete emotional and physical enervation.
But, I suppose, this too shall pass.

2.
In my astronomy class, we talk about the autumnal equinox; I learn that ‘equinox’ is the word used to describe the moment when the sun is directly above the Earth’s equator, how this alignment (when it happens on 9.23) officially heralds in fall, the elliptical shape of the Earth’s orbit, about seasons, and about equinoctial points. Every time the professor says ‘equinoctial,’ I think of the word ‘quixotic.’ I want to believe that this two words are linked in my mind for some undetermined romantic reason, but I know it probably has more to do with homonymic similarities than anything profound.
While jotting down vaguely coherent notes about celestial coordinates, I wonder how the universe--with its infinite space and complexity--manages to keep itself so completely in order.

3.

Something Resembling an Introduction.

Thus begins the seemingly Augean task of getting over you, and maybe growing up a little in the process.