How do you begin to write about love when you’ve been a cynical romantic for ages? It’s almost funny because writers would romanticize every damn thing in the world only to bleed poetry out of their ink. But love? It’s so heavy I can barely type the word and so non-existent and probably only in our heads. This might be coming from an emotionally deprived person but what the hell, love is still very much a fictional tale.
It’s a vicious cycle if we come to think of it – at our young blossoming age, we start to learn the basics and grasp the idea of love by adapting the bits from our surrounding and that defines it. We gradually grow into these individuals curating our own thought process around it, now you do have a little more than the basic knowledge. Suddenly you’ve turned 18 and you find yourself making a list of what love should look like, the necessary qualities that they absolutely must have, what they should smell like, how you expect them to dress. Amidst all this, it never dawns upon you that the apparent love you’re looking for, is busy preparing another list that you perhaps don’t quite fit in. So, you get your heart broken, have your idea of love shattered and list tore to pieces because what’s the point of anything anymore?
But then walks in another person and with every bit of uncertainty, you give them a chance to make a list for you. You give them an opportunity to just be. Turns out they are all the things that you ever wanted from your 18-year-old list, but you’ve outgrown that self now. You no longer feel relevant with your past version and you still try with every ounce of your energy to feel the love you’ve always wanted. But, how could you? It doesn’t serve you anymore.
And in between all the chaos of finding true love and ending up as a heartless wreck, when exactly do you know it is love and not just another unknowingly selfish act to feel the need of belongingness?