azdaema

Why do we believe in our ships so fervently? Why is "belief" such a fitting word to describe this? And for that matter, why is shipping—centered almost exclusively on romantic relationships—such a phenomenon, in a way that nothing else quite is?

In our secularized society, romantic love has become, as Jungian analyst Robert Johnson writes, "the single greatest energy system in the Western psyche. In our culture, it has supplanted religion as the arena in which men and women seek meaning, transcendence, wholeness, and ecstasy." In our quest for the "soul mate," we have conflated the spiritual and the relational, as if they are one and the same. The perfection we long to experience in earthly love used to be sought only in the sanctuary of the divine.^[1]

What does this mean, when translated to the context of shipping?

When romantic love is imbued with such aspirations, our ships can take on a role akin to that of saints: exceptional examples of this power. They reaffirm our belief in it; they are worthy of celebration, reverence, and devotion.

They are sure, so you can be sure. They have found love, so love exists. They are the sun and the moon and stars to one another, so the universe is not infinite, after all;^[2]

I do not claim that a single ship offers some profound insight into a person's heart. I do, however, entertain the notion that larger shipping patterns may be indicative of something. For me personally, I think my armada of ships does, after some fashion, speak to the fact that it’s not true love that I need reassurance exist—it’s epic love.

I am lucky enough to have evidence in my personal life that soft, kind love exits—if not in married couples, then in friendship. I—most if the time—implicitly, unreservedly trust in friendship. When it comes to safe, comforting, grounding emotions, that is where my mind goes. I don't need reassurance that there is fluffy love out there.

But I have a lingering fear of the mundane, of monotony. I have this vague dread that I was raised on fantasy, and that our world, the "real world," will never be vivid enough in comparison; this creeping feeling that everything is inevitably just kind of middling and tepid. Most times I am able to chase this fear away—life is big and wild and vivacious; I truly believe that. But when I look at marriages over the long term, the fear comes inching back. And it is then that I look for comfort to ships that are the result of juicing the sun.