The Contradictions Of A Hopeless Romantic

How do you feel about the concept of liking someone? 

What exactly is the female perspective?

How do you begin to like someone? 

How do these blush-inducing, butterfly-hovering delusions begin?

How does that one person suddenly become the object of all your sane and insane thoughts?

If you have ever sat wondering about these sorts of questions, firstly, Hi! Please join the club. Penned below are pure ramblings, so read at your own discretion.

It all starts somewhere. Sometimes it's a normal, sane conversation. Sometimes it's a clash while walking mindlessly through the corridor. Oh, and sometimes, if the universe feels generous, you might as well get a perfect meet-cute; totally fictional, straight out of a romance novel blah blah. 

And well most of the time, or at least in my case, it all starts with something nasty. A rude interaction, a sarcastic comment or a judgemental look, which makes you think, “Ugh, such arrogance”.

And you don't even realise that you've been thinking that almost the entire day. 

Interesting isn't it? 

No it isn't.

Because who is going to explain the semantics to the brain who categorically despises anything mushy? Who's going to mediate this mind-vs-heart tug of war?

Let me try to elaborate on the root of this frustration of mine.

I have always been an overthinker. The kind that analyzes every full stop or apostrophe in a message? The kind that questions, “Oh, he could have chosen to write something else, why did he write this”? The kind that tries to judge the tone of a person through an electronically transmitted message? Yes, I belong to that species. 

Keeping aside the fact of me being a hardcore overthinker (who loves reading romance and has an unhealthy obsession with non-existent fictional men), my personality might pose a contradiction when I start to talk about the real world, tough love, breaking norms, and believe in becoming an unapologetic strong and independent woman.

And imagine, when a person gets stuck in the mind of such a walking paradox. Close to destruction? Hell yeah.

Now, before this gets offensive, let me make it clear that I am definitely not pointing out that a strong and independent woman doesn't deserve her pretty fairy tale. They do, perhaps more than anyone. 

I am talking about that damn contradiction.

That metaphorical tug between the mind and the heart. Where your heart gushes over the eye-contact which lasted for a micro-second, makes those butterflies erupting in the stomach, and basically, makes you believe you're the female main character of an Ana Huang novel, whereas your mind tries to pull you back from the rose-tinted delusions, emphasis on tries, screaming, “Get a grip, woman!”

Where the thought of dancing together in the rain suddenly halt by a car zooming past and splashing muddy water all over you, while standing alone under the umbrella?

At the very least, I try to be aware. I am aware of when I am roaming in my pretty, sunshiney delusional world, and when I am hustling hard in my reality. But that's where it sometimes becomes frustrating. 

Because believe it or not, we all deserve love. We crave love. Any form of love. All forms of love. That “fuzzy and happy” love. That “giggling and blushing” love. That “coming home after a hectic day to the biggest and warmest hug” love. That “fighting and making up” love.

The true sense of love doesn't arise from that contradiction which I talked about, or as shown in movies or books. It is definitely not that dramatic realization at the climax, coupled with exaggerated declarations, colourful firecrackers and flowing tears. 

It's a process, it's a journey. It's not just about butterflies, or the diamond on her finger. 

Showing up at the worst, and standing strong at the best. I guess that's how simple it is. 

And maybe, just maybe, that's enough.