Hume says that induction is impossible; that any one moment in time should resemble or even seem to be connected to the moment prior to it is astonishing luck. It is the odd blessing of our cognition to move through time perceiving coherence. And if this is the case, that as the moments tick by there is no mold by which one second can shape the next, then we are on precariously thin ice indeed. The history of time is the history of loss: Nothing need persist. As we process the world around us it moves past us infinitesimally faster. It is a trite observation that any phenomena Has Already Happened. We are responding to events already past. Nothing is coming back, and a day that resembles a memory is profound luck, metaphysically speaking.
If violence is the restriction of possibility, love is its inverse – complete submission to it. For when I love I must open myself to loss, to change. Is loss not, in fact, built into love? For I cannot love if my love must bend the universe to my will, distort the facts to hold them in their place second after second. In standing against change I commit violence against that which I profess to love by denying it its own path through the world. How can I love that which I must hold in its place in time? My relationships and connections matter most underpinned by the knowledge that at every moment they could change forever. In a universe where each morning brings a newly minted life, I take tremendous risk in holding onto anything, in committing. In love I must relinquish control. In love I am always celebrating another moment in love. In love I am always mourning.
Crud Meridian 