The Beautifully Terrifying Thrill Of Falling In Love Again
You know this story. You’ve been there, done that. You’ve gotten burned, bitten and betrayed. You know this story all too well. It’s happened so many times before, you can see it coming from a mile away and you don’t even need warning signs anymore. I am you. And I’ve grown from a naïve hopeless romantic, to logical realist. Love — or the absence of it, thereof — will do that to the best of us. But, I’m also human. Which means I’m always on the lookout for hope… without even actively looking out. Hope, here equates to love (for all future references in this article).
You know how they say to err is human, yes? But, to be human means to actually put yourself on the line, repeatedly; knowing fully well that it might just be another big, fat mistake waiting to slap you in the face with an ‘I told you so’ — and you’re doing it anyway.
To be human means to give love a chance one more time, as many times as you humanly can… till you die.
It’s so painfully beautiful, our absolute failure at being stoic and nonchalant. It’s like one of those divine jokes the Universe plays on you — you’ll hope for the best, only to be hit by the worst; but, you’ll hope over and over again. You’ll make the same mistakes over and over again, expecting different results because love, my dear, makes emotional fools of us all.
But, I don’t mean it like it’s a bad thing. To be able to love is actually powerful. To be open to the possibility of an endless love, despite being burned and broken repeatedly before, is proof that magic exists in this world. It exists in the form of the indomitable spirit of a romantic human being. It means you still have hope and faith in this world, in the goodness of people; even if it’s like looking for a needle in the hay stack. You will pull apart every straw of hay if you had to; but you’re determined to find the needle; come what may. You will get poked repeatedly in the process, by sharp straws of hay pretending to be the needle and might actually pass up on the needle because you’re so used to being poked by the hay. Quite a malady, isn’t it?
It will be worth it though…in the long run… or so you keep telling yourself. You see, the reward for never giving up is always a fairytale ending. (Or, so you keep telling yourself). But, really, have we even seen the future? How it all goes up or down? How it all ends? Maybe there’s no fairytale ending. Maybe it just fades to black all abruptly and the credits roll… and you’re not even the main character, because this isn’t even your love story. So you exit the hall and wait till you find a love that’s yours; with a story that’s yours to tell. It’s serendipitous. It’s a little stupid, even. But, it’s true. It’s rare and it’s the light that keeps us moving on, edging closer towards the end of the tunnel.
Love indeed is what drives us; what gives us hope even when we didn’t ask for it, or didn’t want it because we were too afraid to latch on to the littlest bit of it. Scared, that someone would just push a ‘pull’ door and undo all your resilience and resistance and turn you into a fallible puddle of mush who can hurt without bleeding and die of heartache.
It shows us how absolutely breakable we are and how it is this very notion that, somehow, makes us even more daring. It’s like we’re throwing caution to the winds and the hurricanes with a signboard that reads: ‘Breakable, But Able’. So, hit me with your best, or in this case, worst shot. And watch as I crumble into a million little pieces like fragile crystal, hoping someone will pick me right back up and fix me like I was brand new.
Deep down, we all want a love that will make the pain of the past go away… or, at the very least make it seem like it was worth it, after all.
Love is hope and a whole lot of stupidity that feels like magic in all the tiny moments that make up a lifetime. We call it romantic and paint it red. We make elaborate stories out of it and sit with a bucket of popcorn believing in ‘happy ever afters’ because of it. It’s hope on steroids; that’s what love is. And a shot at it would make me want to watch romantic movies again without bursting into tears thinking about how it didn’t work out for me the last time. And how the scars have left me apprehensive of every smile, every date, every advance and every promise ever made.
Love is the one thing that can convert me; turn me into a believer. It’s not ‘the word of God’, no; it’s the word of love. That’s the gospel we want and need. That’s the gospel one we want to practice. If only it wasn’t so damn hard for the millionth time.