Jane Austen begins my favourite book of hers with a universal truth, as she saw it. My universal truth is different. Is it because of the age I live in, or that we are different people? Both truths concern love, traversing eras. My truth is that for real love, a person will wholeheartedly, gladly, give up life.
I came to this truth recalling a conversation with my real love. Real love came at twenty five. Discussing death, incapacitation. I requested should I be capable of thought but unable to process thought through to action, that my love would put me down. Horrified, he said no, he wouldn’t do this. It would be problematical, with prison a possibility.
It became apparent that he did not love me beyond all else. And that is what led me to my truth. Real love would not allow any other possibility.