Naturally, life happened, love visited me several times, and I eventually learned that those idealistic fantasies would never really come true and that being romantic set me up for great, painful falls. I was in college when I stopped writing poems, switched from long night gowns to pj's, stopped noticing the rain and the flowers, and found a new signature. "Men only want one thing from you," was drilled into me and I accepted reality: happily ever after was a load of shit.
I did what most young romantics do when they figure that out: had sex until I was immune to it, developed sarcasm, started drinking, and mastered the art (or should I say the tragedy?) of not letting my face give away how I actually felt. These "tools" served me well, and I survived the loss of my romantic self without making too much of a fuss over it.
Then, one day, as you may expect, I fell madly blindly in love with someone who was madly blindly in love with me too. And all the romantic dreams I had buried deep inside came rushing out, eager to participate in this love story. Poems and letters were written. There were sweep-me-off-my-feet hugs and passionate kisses in the rain. There were flowers and chocolates and three-hour-long phone conversations where we would just "hear each other breathe." It was quite beautiful at the time. I remember thinking, "This is what I've been waiting for. Someone to come along who could meet my romanticism and let me express myself completely." We were obsessively happy and life seemed to fall perfectly into place.
But.
It ended. The flame was too strong, too powerful, too fast, too hot, and it burnt out so quickly we were both left groundless- wondering where it went and why we couldn't get it back. I mourned the loss of the man I had loved, but I also mourned the loss of that romantic girl again, whom I thought had come back for good. She seemed to look at me accusingly, you didn't protect me. You let me out when it wasn't safe. I was heart-broken and desperately sad.
Some time passed, however, and once I had let go of him and who I was with him, I saw that I actually didn't want that. It was a fantasy, and we worshipped each other, which sounds nice, but I don't want a fantasy, nor do I want to be worshipped. A love that blinds me and puts me on a pedestal is actually not the kind of love I want, after all. I much rather have the kind of love I have to work for and earn, with someone whose flaws are very apparent to me, and with whom I feel at ease being just human.
I don't want a Prince. I'm not a Princess. I'm a woman. I'm a human being. I don't floss my teeth every day. I have scars. I eat too much chocolate. I'm a terrible singer who no one wants to take to karaoke. I can never throw anything away. I own shoes that cost enough to feed a starving colony. I like country music. I procrastinate. I sleep with a stuffed peter rabbit. And I have enough ex-boyfriends who could add to this list until it turned into a Russian novel.
You get the idea.
After finding the fairy-tale love story and then letting it go, I saw that it wasn't what I wanted. I want to be madly in love, yes, but with consciousness and choice. Believe it or not, I don't want to erase into someone else's being, become one, connect in a way that is inseparable. I rather create a story that has space for two individuals, who are together because they choose to be, not because they can't live without each other. Something about that is so much more valuable and healthy than indulging in the "star-crossed lovers" myth. Romeo and Juliet didn't exactly end with Happily Ever After either, lest we forget. My romantic self is still part of me, it really can't just be buried away, but it's learned to find peace with realism. I can love deeply, but I want to see who I'm loving for who they are, and be seen for who I am.
We all have a goddess within us. It makes sense to worship her. It's easy to love her.
I want to be loved for my humanity.
I want to find love, with sanity and sight.
I want romance, with realism.
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