reverse of the reverse.
and well, in the objective of being completely honest, i realise, that the cause for this thought originiated here. well, i won't explain, cuz its hurting to my ego, and it is actually ironic in some ways, tho not all.
but i'm not the only guilty one. ever heard an ego statement in the jest of humour? it works in two ways - getting the idea across and reversing the normal method of trying to hide truth, which is in and of itself, a reversal of the former norm.
of course, it is now impossible to determine the truth. (don't believe the truth)
hence, if you see the link i've left out, i went to private blogging. which is escapism of sorts.
anyways, if any1 does actually happen to come here still, check out zhiying's writting. its owning.
A Europewide Search For Love
by trin - Wednesday, February 15th, 2006
Take a deep breath. Here we go: Valentine’s Day.
Last Valentine’s Day, I was happily, smugly Attached. You know what I mean. That sickeningly touchy couple making out on the “up” escalator while you’re going down (and not in that way)? That couple who sits on each others’ lap, oblivious to everybody else’s mental anguish? Guilty as charged – but before you lock me away, I just have to say that I enjoyed every second of it.
Unfortunately, everything good must come to an end.
I sense a trend in my relationships: like the Energizer Bunny, they just keep going and going and going and going. I have not been in a single relationship that has not lasted less than a year, where neither parties have not once fantasized about living together in old age, in a charmingly antiquated (but delightfully restored in the minimalist tradition) house, with a golden retriever for a pet, presumably causing everybody within a fifteen mile radius to vomit in their mouths every time we lounge, arthritis-bound, on the veranda of our beachfront property, feeding each other grapes and whispering, “I love you”, “No, I love you more,”, “No, I love you more more more“.
But battery ads lie; relationships, like bunnies, don’t always keep going. Most of the time they just run out of steam. By the time I break up with anybody, three words come to mind: “flogging”, “dead”, and “horse”. I’ve never actually been broken up with, but I have been slapped, screamed at, accused, cried at, and threatened enough that I’m actually looking forward to when I get to be on the receiving end.
I can imagine the scene if somebody were to break up with me: I sit elegantly at an chic out-of-the-way café, sipping my café latte. I listen to the usual “it’s not you, it’s me”, and “someday somebody better will come along” platitudes with the aura of a grieving saint quietly receiving her matyrdom. I remain understanding and silent, shake hands, promise to keep in touch, and coolly walk out the café, not a tear in sight.
And then I post naked pictures of my ex all over the internet.
Seriously, though – I love my ex-es. I can’t say I love them all equally, but I do. I can’t imagine being the person I am now if I hadn’t known any of them. Afterwards, though, the trouble is imagining that you’ll ever be attractive to anyone else again; the thought that you will die alone, unloved, with your corpse being eaten by your forty pet cats somehow begins to take on a very high probability. Eventually, your friends, to whom you subjected your mushy, starry-eyed monologues, acquire their own beloveds, and then you truly begin to understand what good friends they were to put up with you in the first place.
You begin to stalk your ex in ways that would make James Bond proud – blogs, Friendster, news from friend-of-friend-of-friends, and then feel utterly heartbroken when they mention you; and weirdly, even more so when they don’t. You secretly hope that every single lovelorn blog entry is actually private and locked so you can’t view it, and feel a bit better – then you feel like a total retard for caring so much. And oh yeah – it hurts. A lot.
Because now, when you think about them, you can only remember the good parts. Suicide pacts? What suicide pacts? 1 am conversations about how you don’t love them as much as they love you? Never heard of those. All you can think about is how gorgeous they looked that night, or how they used to smile, or how you could tell them anything. They take on that rareified beauty that only the unattainable can get, because you certainly can’t get them back. You’re not that dumb, though; you know it would only end up the same way again. But damn if a girl can’t hope against her common sense.
… And then you feel irrationally enraged that you can’t move on and feel like stabbing things.
Then, slowly, you start to forget the little things. Like what they smelled like. Or how they smiled. Instead of missing them, you start to miss the things associated with them – like how it felt like to be held, or loved. (This is where being consumed by forty pet cats comes in.) But you don’t forget entirely – you can’t.
From here, you have two options. You either let go, or you don’t. Not letting go means the prospect of being eaten by cats increases; letting go and trying to find somebody new means that even though you may end up being eaten by cats – hey, at least you tried. But those past memories? You wouldn’t give them up for the world. They hurt like hell, but they’re as much a part of you as the first time you rode your bike, fell into a drain, and was traumatised for life – or like the first time you rode a bike, and then you suddenly found that you actually could.
At the end of the day, I’m of the school of thought that it’s better to have loved than to have never loved at all. See also: what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. And like dear old John Donne would say (Lit S students, I’m looking at you): death and love have a lot in common. (Actually, he meant sex, but don’t argue with me.)
So go out and experience a little of le petit mort, as the French would call it.
Let’s do it. Let’s fall in love.
Happy Valentine’s.
NB: This was late, because of those kerrazzy time zone differences. Apologies.