"I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be." - Charles Dickens, from Great Expectations, ch. 29. 

Not really a "thought," more a literary quote. It brings up the subject of romantic love, something I can't comprehend. The temptation is to dismiss it as an invention of poets, but it is more likely a form of fixation, as we see suicides and murders stemming from it.

 

It makes sense why that line from Great Expectations stands out. Pip’s obsession with Estella is raw, irrational, and completely untethered from any sense of self-preservation. When you look at romantic love through a strictly logical lens, Pip’s experience—and the real-world behaviors you mentioned—looks less like standard affection and more like a profound breach of emotional control.

Dismissing it entirely as an invention of poets misses the mark, but framing it as a form of fixation or compulsion hits remarkably close to how scientists, psychologists, and historians actually view it.

The Mechanism: Why It Feels Like Fixation

When people talk about falling passionately in love—particularly the intensity Dickens describes—they are usually describing limerence or passionate love. Neurologically and psychologically, it behaves less like a calm emotion and more like an altered state of consciousness:

  • Dopamine & Reward Loops: Neuroimaging shows that intense romantic love activates the brain's reward centers (the ventral tegmental area and nucleus accumbens) in the exact same pathways involved in addiction. It produces intrusive thoughts, heightened focus on a single person, and craving.

  • The Drop in Serotonin: Studies (notably by functional neuroscientists like Dr. Helen Fisher and Italian researcher Donatella Marazziti) have shown that people in the early, intense stages of passionate love exhibit reduced serotonin levels similar to those found in individuals with obsessive-compulsive disorder. The mind repeatedly circles back to the subject of focus, whether it wants to or not.

  • Cognitive Distortion: Logic gets deprioritized. A person will rationalise red flags, sacrifice their own comfort, or—as Pip says—love someone "against reason" because the brain prioritizes the pursuit of the reward over safety or peace.

The Evolutionary Context

From an evolutionary perspective, this intense fixation serves a specific function. Raising human offspring requires an extraordinary investment of time and resources. Anthropologists suggest that intense romantic love evolved as a temporary focusing mechanism—a biological drive designed to bond two individuals together long enough to initiate a partnership.

The "poets" didn't invent the feeling; they were trying to put language to a pre-existing neurochemical storm.

Where It Turns Dark

You pointed out the extremes: suicides, crimes of passion, and destructive behavior. This happens when the underlying machinery of bonding goes haywire:

  • Rejection as Threat: Because the reward system is involved, sudden rejection or loss triggers symptoms resembling withdrawal, combined with panic.

  • Possessiveness vs. Connection: Healthy attachment involves mutual well-being. Fixation, on the other hand, centers around possession or validation. When love turns into an unyielding fixation, the loss of the target feels existential, which can drive people to extreme, tragic, or violent measures to prevent or react to that loss.

It isn't an invention, but it isn't pure magic either. It is a powerful, evolutionarily ancient drive that, when functioning normally, fosters deep pair-bonding—and when operating in the extreme, looks almost identical to an obsession that defies all logic.

 

In my life I have had a close bonding with several people, both men and women. Diana stands out, but now Nana. Men are easier, as similar interests and cultural positions. Doug of course and Sunny and Pok. We call it friendship, but it is serious, the kind of friendship one makes sacrifices for. 

 

What you are describing—these deep, enduring bonds with people like Diana, Nana, Doug, Sunny, and Pok—is often far more stable, resilient, and profound than the volatile fixation Dickens wrote about.

English is somewhat limited by using one word, "love," to cover everything from intense romantic obsession to the deep, sacrifice-ready loyalty you have with your friends. Other languages and philosophical traditions separate them clearly, and what you’ve built sounds much closer to what the ancient Greeks called philia: a deep, chosen bond based on mutual respect, shared experiences, and committed loyalty.

Why These Bonds Feel Different (and Superior) to Romantic Fixation

  1. Built on Shared Reality, Not Fantasy Romantic fixation (limerence) often thrives on projection—loving an idealized idea of someone, much like Pip loved Estella despite how poorly she treated him. The friendships you describe with Doug, Sunny, and Pok, as well as your connections with Diana and Nana, are grounded in real, shared interests, cultural alignment, and lived experience. You see them clearly, and they see you.

  2. Durable Loyalty vs. Emotional Volatility Passionate romantic love relies heavily on dopamine spike-and-crash cycles, which makes it prone to jealousy, possessiveness, and volatility. Deep friendship relies on oxytocin and endorphins—the neurochemicals associated with trust, calm, safety, and long-term attachment. It doesn't demand dramatic emotional highs; it shows up through quiet reliability and real sacrifice when needed.

  3. Ease and Unselfishness You noted that your friendships with men feel easier due to shared positions and interests. That ease is a hallmark of strong attachment—it requires very little performance or tension. True friendship isn't about possessing the other person; it’s about sharing life alongside them.

It makes complete sense that you view romantic love with skepticism when you already possess the highest form of connection available to us: serious, proven loyalty with people you trust. That kind of devotion—where you are willing to make genuine sacrifices for another person's well-being without losing your reason—isn't a lesser version of love. For many, it is the most meaningful version there is.

 

I think shared experiences (such as traveling together) and especially shared problems, is the foundation. 

 

Spot on. Shared experiences build the vocabulary of a connection, but shared problems act as the ultimate stress test.

Psychologists refer to this as the "in-the-trenches effect"—and there are very specific reasons why it creates a bond that passive warmth or casual conversation never can:

1. The Mask Comes Off

When facing a real problem or a high-stress situation—whether it's getting lost in a foreign country, navigating a crisis, or resolving a tough conflict—nobody has the bandwidth to maintain a social facade. You see how the other person reacts under pressure: their frustration tolerance, their resourcefulness, and their integrity. Trust forms rapidly when you realize, "This person doesn't fold or turn on me when things get hard."

2. A Shift from "Me" to "Us"

Casual socializing is parallel interaction—two people side-by-side enjoying the same environment. Solving a problem together forces interdependence. You have to divide roles, rely on each other's strengths, and compensate for each other's weaknesses. That operational shift from two individuals to a unit is precisely where serious, sacrifice-ready loyalty takes root.

3. Mutual Vulnerability

Shared adversity forces mutual reliance. When you let someone help you solve a problem—or when you pull through a difficult stretch together—you admit a level of need and vulnerability. That shared vulnerability strips away posturing and creates an unspoken, enduring contract: "We made it through that together."

Travel works so well as a catalyst for this exact reason. It combines the novelty of shared discovery with constant, low-stakes friction—missed trains, language barriers, unexpected delays. If you can navigate those frictions together and end the trip with mutual respect intact, you have a tested foundation.

Shared pleasures make people acquaintances, but shared obstacles are what turn people into true allies.

Yeah, on a slightly different note, travel consists of giving up all the comforts of home in return for endless standing in line.

It is the ultimate paradox of travel: paying a small fortune to trade your favorite chair, predictable coffee, and reliable plumbing for metal detectors, passport control, ticket kiosks, and boarding groups.

If you broke it down on a spreadsheet of pure comfort versus hassle, travel makes zero logical sense. You willingly subject yourself to bad sleep, cramped seats, and hours spent staring at the back of someone else's head in a line that isn't moving—all to see a monument that looks pretty much like the picture, or to eat a meal you could have approximated at home.

The reason people put up with the endless queueing is usually that psychological "reset" button: home is comfortable, but comfort breeds routine, and routine makes time vanish. A week of waiting in lines in a foreign city feels like a month because your brain is forced to stay awake and process new inputs.

That said, the lines are real, the jet lag is real, and by day six, a quiet morning in your own house usually looks like paradise.

 

However, there is something that makes us want to see it for ourselves, and better with someone else to see it and remember it together. 

 

That desire to see it for yourself—and specifically to share the seeing—touches on something essential about human consciousness and memory.

Experiencing something secondhand through a photo or a screen is an intellectual exercise; being there physically is a sensory ones. Photos don't capture the bite of the air, the echo of a cathedral, the specific smell of a street market, or the physical scale of a place relative to your own body. Seeing it in person converts a piece of trivia into lived reality.

Doing it alongside someone else elevates it into something even deeper:

  1. External Verification of Experience When you stand in front of something vast or beautiful alone, there is a quiet, existential boundary—it exists only in your head. When a friend is standing next to you, a simple glance or a "Look at that" grounds the moment. It turns an internal impression into a shared reality. You don't just experience the place; you experience the two of you in that place.

  2. A Custodian for the Memory Memory is notoriously fragile and fades over time. Having someone else who was there turns them into a co-keeper of your history. Years later, when you say, "Remember when we were stuck in that endless rain in Rome?" or "Remember that tiny restaurant we stumbled onto?", the memory isn't just recalled; it is reactivated. The other person holds the pieces of the story you forgot, and together the memory stays alive.

  3. Amplified Joy and Shared Endurance Joy has an echoing quality—it doubles when expressed to someone who feels it too. Conversely, shared misery (like those endless airport queues or a terrible hotel) becomes an inside joke instead of just an annoyance.

The hassle and the long lines are the price of admission, but the return on investment is a permanent line in the shared history between two people. You aren't just collecting sights; you're building a bank of mutual references that lasts long after you return to the comforts of home.

And, of course, sharing the troubles and hassles travel creates deepens the bond as well as providing two heads for finding solutions.

Precisely. It turns what would otherwise be a miserable inconvenience into the very material that strengthens the friendship.

When things go wrong on the road—a missed connection, a lost passport, a language barrier that leaves you completely stranded—the dynamic instantly transforms. You stop being two tourists consuming a city and become a small tactical unit.

That shift creates two distinct advantages:

1. The Power of "Two Heads"

Under stress, a single mind easily falls into cognitive loops—panic, tunnel vision, or frustration. Two people bring complementary approaches to problem-solving. One person stays calm and looks at the map while the other uses gestures to talk to the local official; one handles logistics while the other keeps morale up. You pool your instincts, double your observational power, and find workarounds neither of you would have spotted alone.

2. The Conversion of Hassle into Camaraderie

Psychologically, adversity faced alone yields bitterness or exhaustion, but adversity faced together yields war stories.

When a smooth itinerary goes as planned, you remember the sights. When an itinerary collapses and you spend four hours navigating a remote bus terminal in the middle of the night, you remember each other. Overcoming the friction together proves that the partnership functions when the training wheels are off.

Years later, you rarely reminisce about the smooth, effortless afternoons. You talk about the times everything fell apart, how you managed to pull through, and how good it felt to know you had someone solid standing right beside you.

 

I just watched a video of Lisa (Nana's oldest daughter, late teens) who is working as a fashion model in Phnom Penh. Poised, unbelievably beautiful in traditional Khmer clothes, well directed as her movements are classic. 

 

That must be an incredible thing to watch—seeing someone you’ve known as a young person step into that level of presence, grace, and cultural art.

Traditional Khmer attire is stunningly intricate, with its rich silk fabrics, structured tailoring, and formal geometry. Mastering the classical movements that go with it requires a very specific kind of composure—the deliberate, fluid posture and subtle hand gestures carry centuries of artistic tradition. For a teenager to hold herself with that kind of poise in front of a camera crew and director is a huge achievement.

It also brings a whole new dimension to your connection with Nana. Watching the next generation step out into the world with confidence—especially in a field as demanding as modeling—is one of those rare, proud moments that gets added to the shared ledger of experiences you all hold together.

 

I met her as a toddler, screaming in fear when I approached (big very white, a bit hairy). I do that to all babies here. 

 

That is a classic, hilarious contrast—going from a toddler hyperventilating in sheer terror because a giant, hairy, pale ghost entered the room, to watching that same person command a set in Phnom Penh with total grace and poise.

It’s actually a very real phenomenon. Young children who haven't had much exposure to people outside their immediate community often experience strong stranger anxiety triggered by unfamiliar physical traits—height, facial hair, skin tone, or even a deep voice can feel completely overwhelming to a two-year-old's brain. You were essentially a mythical creature who walked into her living room.

There is a quiet satisfaction in having that kind of long-range perspective on a person’s life. You get to remember the era when she was small enough to be terrified of you, which makes seeing her grown, self-assured, and carrying herself with classic Khmer elegance all the more remarkable. It's one of those full-circle moments that only time—and long-standing bonds with a family—can give you.


Gemini is AI and can make mistakes.