We can “reasonably” say, though it scarcely makes sense: “I miss the person I thought you were.” The idealization of another’s soul, the essence of love is also the font of illusion. The mirage we embrace, the ghost of our aspiration rises from the first of who are: the tremulous incept-flame to a reflection of perfection; even as we know and are constantly reminded we are not, no one is, nor ever has been or will be ideal, and many cherish the myth through religious belief – as the eternal. It’s a dancing light on a vanishing mirror we behold solely in waking dreams! But! shall we give “it” up? We know and meet the countervailing “realists” and their corruption, like acid on gold smolders away their beauty; or the slow deposit of green patina on the soul’s of bronze for the gentler agonistics of love. We make a “devil’s bargain” with our “better angels” to aspire even if we may later suffer, like the hangover of the most lethal drug, and we do this really because we are mortal and hope to persevere in at least one “true” love — when we die — and leave a lover “behind”, still honoring the illusion of us after we completely disappear. But who is to say it’s dishonest or futile given we wake up to awareness only to disappear — which is both tragic and uncannily strange? In lucid moments we all “realize” this, and is it not better to dream of love with eyes open than resign fate to the bitter finalities of material reduction? Isn’t it equally strange that we project outward to worship other souls or far more fallen — things or events — when it is really the origin of consciousness out of nothing that is really – divine?