On an evening conversation over coffee last weekend, a friend whom I have not seen for quite some time now was, quite characteristically, angst-ing. He was a batchmate in college, graduated with honors, and is now working in one of the larger pharmaceutical firms in the country. Everything seemed to be going his way, and from what I could see, he was pretty much satisfied with his life. He had his own car now, was living in his own flat, some savings in the bank, and a stable job. I was not surprised— he worked hard, and partied even harder.

The evening's conversation was light and comfortable, but it wasn't until he began recounting the tragi-comedy of the past two years' attempts at a relationship that we found ourselves laughing like giggling schoolgirls. He told me, for instance, of how he had been going out with this girl whom he later on found out to be cheating on her boyfriend, who turned out to be his cousin. Or the time he found himself in the middle of a spat between two feuding sisters, trying to make the other jealous. “Ewan ko nga, e,” he said finally, “Bakit ba lahat na lang ng mga nakukursunadahan ko, sayád.” He gave out an exasperated laugh.

“Don't be too hard on yourself,” I said in reassurance, knowing exactly what he meant. “Lahat naman tayo, paminsan-minsan, talagang may-sayad.” At that point, I was reminded of that scene in Sleepless in Seattle, where Annie, feeling thoroughly crazy over her attraction towards someone she hasn't even met, consults her brother, Tom, on what to do.

So what we think of as chemistry is just two neuroses knowing that they are a perfect match. The words are funny, only because the words are true. In fact, a noted professor of civil law is said to have once quipped that all marriages are ipso facto voidable by reason of insanity because only the insane get married. “Notice,” he said, “people always seem to relate love and marriage to insanity, like ‘being madly in-love,’ or ‘the love that overthrows reason.’”

Indeed, I've learned that everybody has their own insane moments; everybody is, in someway, I think, already insane— in love, or otherwise. And in intervals of lucidity when we return to ourselves, sometimes we are embarrassed by what we do because of this temporary affliction, sometimes we feel stupid and even diminished; most times, however, we are (I suspect) reassured by our capacity to surprise even ourselves, as we venture out of the little boxes of our constructed security, prompting us, at last, to do things which we would never dream of doing while “sane.”

Amor facit extasim, the Latins used to say. Love draws us out of ourselves. In the end, it is this kind of madness which we find ourselves relishing, one which we revel in and celebrate (after all, ang kilig ay biyaya rin ng Diyos, a priest once told me). We feel insanely alive, and rightly so, knowing that it is the same kind of madness which moves even martyrs and poets.