Gaz 1

I have a friend who, like me, is deeply passionate about film, music, and literature. But my connection to these things runs deeper—it’s woven into how I see the world, what I expect from life, and how I reconstruct myself. That’s why I projected all of this meaning onto him, and from that projection grew an unhealthy attachment. I wasn’t just seeking his affection—I was seeking the approval of art itself, hoping that through him, my solitary devotion to books, films, and music might finally take on a human form and look back at me.

But he could be shallow at times. Dismissive. Emotionally absent.

He never quite became the vessel I hoped he would be—the person who could truly respond to all that I carried.

And I wonder: if he didn’t watch films, read, or listen to music, would I still love him? I don’t think I would. What would be left might only be indifference and self-interest. Is that an unfair question? Maybe. After all, those passions are so much a part of him, they seem inseparable—like asking, “What if the sun rose in the west?”

But it’s a meaningful question, because it shows me where my love began. Did I love him—regardless of how his life or appearance changed—or did I fall in love with the things he consumed, things that he didn’t create, but merely used to ornament his identity?

So when he appeared, I plunged headfirst into the fantasy that the god I’d been praying to had finally descended into reality. I was ready to believe that this time, finally, the god would sit beside me.

Because I’ve always believed in that: a symbolic ideal, something that should exist, something that never quite answered back. I wanted that god to descend—take human form, sit beside me during a film, talk poetry late into the night. I wanted the silent world to finally grow arms and hold me.

But what I failed to understand was this: people are people. They are never gods. No one we love will ever be the figure we imagine in our prayers. Real people are touched—muddied—by work, stress, daily life. God is untouched. Pure. And in that contrast, I finally found some peace. Because to project godhood onto someone is, in itself, a kind of violence. People are innocent. And yet, paradoxically, guilty—because we always try to give god a human face.

Why do we insist on draping another person in the robe of Christ? Isn’t that what the crucifixion was—the violence of trying to make a man into a god? There is no god without such crime.

And if divinity is born of that violence—can it truly be justified?

We don’t want to be the ones who suffer. We look for someone else to suffer in our place—or at the very least, someone whose pain mirrors our own. That way, our pain feels seen.

But love isn’t about handing your suffering to someone else. My love for books and film doesn’t come from pleasure—it comes from the pain I’ve felt in this world. That’s why I longed for redemption.

Is that longing wrong? Maybe that’s the wrong question. Maybe it’s not about right or wrong—but about whether it’s even possible. Or whether love is the place to search for it.

So why have I made this my standard for loving someone?

A lover must first be a person—and only then, love can follow.

If love comes first, if we assign someone the role before we see who they are, then we’re not loving—we’re building a god.