The mystery of love.

I’m sitting here on my bed, listening to old, nostalgic jazz music, staring at this white, blank screen. The cursor blinks and blinks like a ticking time bomb, always a ticking time bomb, as if it would explode and shatter my eyeglasses. While I briefly imagine what would happen if a glass shard pierced my pupil as I scream in agony at the blood bursting out of the wound, at least I would be taken out of this madness, this madness of writing.

What do I even write about anymore? Dark romance is one of the only genres I enjoy writing in, but it seems I’ve lost my touch. Is it because of the increasing amount of grace I have for myself and others? Is it because my anger has served its purpose? Is it because I’ve forgiven the men in my past that I can’t find myself to be passionate in the deaths of them, in the blood that paints my protagonist’s hands? Do I have too much experience now that it’s suddenly becoming too personal, too intimate to reveal, despite the fiction plots and poetic stances? I used to be engrossed in a trance when I wrote, like an artist on a high, painting a mural to unnerve their audience, tremble the dead. I would write like a woman possessed, and when I was finished, and punctuated the last sentence that makes teeth chatter, it would be 3am, and I’ve suddenly forgotten to eat. My heart would stammer, and my fingers would throb. I would stare at the screen, crazed, and smile as I read my finished product, almost devilishly, cunningly, patting myself on the back. “You’ve done it now,” I would think. Cue the applause.

Now, well, all I’ve been writing lately is poetry prose, or just prose. That’s not particularly a terrible thing; it’s a way to flesh out my thoughts, my own desires and needs, which is really, to be seen. I understand the need for myself to write that way; I understand the outcome. But it’s not a story. It’s not like how I used to write; delving myself in the storytelling aspect of a character’s demise. Have I become blind with my own personal experiences of deceit? Or is it the unknown of my own destiny, of fate, whether they truly exist or not?

Dating in this modern, deranged world, well, is a nightmare—a tortuous and never-ending horror. It’s exhausting, incredbily mind-consuming. Maybe I was born a little too late in this world. I could have been dating in a world that still values courtship and commitment, not sex and friends with benefits. It’s been reduced to a picture on a screen, a swipe of a finger, a singular text. It’s quite sad to be honest, almost pitiful, that you are reduced to see if your face and body is suitable enough to be fucked. The corny pick-up lines, the playing of mind games, the constant act of ghosting (which is just another way of saying you’re a coward)—I mean, I refuse to believe this is the type of society we’ve become. The definition of honesty has seemingly lost its value. How can we thrive and revel in cancel culture, but can’t even be honest with ourselves? The fear of cancellation, the fear of rejection, the fear of confrontation—it has taken over the route of our actions. Some of us even fail to take the journey of healing, but instead, hurt people merely because we are hurting too.

I’d like to believe love will find us when we are not in active pursuit of it. I’d like to believe we’ve already found our life, romantic partners, but we just don’t know it. Maybe we passed by them on our way to the bookstore. Maybe he was in the same movie theater you entered. Maybe he sat next to you on the airplane, and although you never spoke, would see each other again at a dinner party or crash into one another in the rain. Maybe he was the man who smiled at you when you passed by him at the train station, or maybe he is sitting next to you as we speak. I’d like to believe that’s how it works.

While I can be envious, no, jealous, of high school sweethearts and those who found their one and only at the age of 16, no relationship is perfect. Yes, I know that. Some people tend to forget I’ve been in one. And I know that our culture today thrives in the saying “Don’t settle,” but there is a reason for that. I’ve seen many settle in abusive relationships, I’ve seen many complain about their partners disrespecting their values and not supporting their needs. Because of that, a new fear was unlocked. It’s only natural, of course, to not settle for emotional or physical abusive behaviors, like many of us had witnessed, to not settle for the treatment we don’t deserve. We don’t want to be our friends, our parents, our siblings, our coworkers… no, what we desire, if we were frank with ourselves, is a white-picket fence. Not a perfect white picket fence, not a sleek, painted white-picket fence, not even a conventional, super domesticated white-picket fence, but a white picket fence. But some of us think that’s unachievable, at least those of us out in these streets. And let’s face it: we never had or seen or witnessed a perfect example of what love is, what marriage is, what a relationship is; we just know what it is not.

But the mystery of it all; the if or when I do find or have a romantic partner, is terrifying. While I find it exciting and sexy when I do date, when I do connect with someone, when we are both being vulnerable–it’s also a bit scary; the unknown of it all, the “will he be another guy on the list?”, the “is he just putting on a mask to get inside of my pants?”, the “is this just another ploy for his benefit and his alone?” And sometimes, I’d ask God some questions: “God, honestly, just how many more? How many more do I need to go through? How many frogs do I have to kiss just to get to the final frog wearing a crown?”

While I still wait for an answer, well, I’ll continue to laugh and smile, be the best me I can be, and work through this writer’s block of mine. I’ll continue to try and feed the little droplets of hope that dangle on the thread.

But also—soulmate—if you are out there, kind sir, can you hurry the fuck up and get it together?! #Askingforafriend.

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