life of a romantic
If you grabbed me by the nape and started rolling me up, the way one folds a collapsible picnic blanket. That is to say, with difficulty getting the right angles, tucking in stray bits, and eliminating air pockets so that it fits into a neat shape that fits reasonably into a bag for taking home. But if you managed to do it successfully at some point, and distilled my rolled-up form into a single word, I imagine you’d fine “romantic” after the dust of the operation settles.
I’m a romantic at heart, in every sense of the word.
I believe there’s endless hope in the world. I believe in optimism, that it’s always a choice and always the right one. I fall in love easily. I get absorbed, wisps of my essence sneaking out my extremities, seeking an adventure in a new home. I dilute myself with the world. Get swept up in the waves of a starlit city, the glint of universe in their eye, how late sunlight drapes her body in gold between these worn cypresses, how a single word can make your heart feel like it burst at the seams, how a simple flow to a melody can sew up the rips in an instant.
I become obsessed. I’m obsessed with losing myself in new worlds. I lose my breath when I see someone dance with abandon. I’m wrapped in awe when I hear someone talk with divine faith in the importance of what they do. I cry streams in those stupid little moments, when—from my particular vantage point—the atoms of the universe line up and this second feels sufficient as a reason for why we were given breath in the first place.
This sounds nice and fluffy, but my romantic tendencies have a double edge, too. It means whenever I don’t get what I’m hoping for or expecting, I feel every bit of the pain that it triggers. I can’t put it under a box or shove it into the attic or hide it under the carpet. I don’t have the capacity to turn off my receptors. My stomach capsizes when I feel like I’m disappointing someone. My mind overloads when I’m navigating the spectrum of resting states for new relationships.
This is not to say that I hide from the pain. In fact, I run towards it; pain is yet another avenue for my obsession. I romanticize tragedy. So when say I go on a “second date” that turns out to be something else, I pretend I’m a Romeo. I kick up gravel and spin it into a whirlwind of daggers and savor the overwhelming nature of a million invisible cuts. I love the energy that comes from intense emotion. Whenever I went through overwhelming troubles in college, I walked out into the field of trees by the campus gate at night, put on Labyrinth and Sam Smith and found a large oak’s shoulder to cry on. When a crush was unrequited, I biked across the city, listening to gnash and keshi, found a large bench in the middle of an empty park and danced under the stars until I felt once more connected to the world.
There’s a rising sentiment that romance is dead—corrupted by the technology age. Reborn as a multi-headed hydra with infinite optionality. Polyamory is a thriving community in major metropolitan cities. Having a “rotation” of partners (intimate, sexual, and everything in between) is not only a norm but has become an expectation. If you’re single and opting out, a member of society can’t help but wonder “what’s wrong with them?”
At the same time, people are more emotionally frustrated than ever before. People don’t think they have as many close friends as we used to. Therapy has become a thriving industry, even while you see jokes such as this go viral. There’s a societal sense that something is wrong. Yearning as opposed to satisfaction has become a norm. We feel as if we have to act satisfied; that if we don’t, we’ll appear desperate, that no one wants to be around someone who has the stench of desperation, so we cover ourselves with social media packaged perfume and pretend that it’s business as usual, glamor is an everyday institution. All the while, the landfills are overflowing and the garbage is poking out the seams of our floorboards.
I wonder if sometimes I’m too idealistic, if imagining film-perfect narratives is unhealthy for me. A small voice whispers “should I temper my dreams, fit them into more “reasonable” boxes?” Of course, my mind roars back a resonant “No." But still, that doesn’t stop me from the occasional wondering, peeking in that metaphorical closet of skeletons. Every time I feel overwhelming sensations, part of me wishes I was numbed to the extremes while another relishes every second of the rush.
While I was in New York this summer, I took a dance class by Bo Park. I did a little research beforehand and saw how hard the choreo she was teaching was, so I watched the choreo video and started prepping. I wanted to have fun, but also, I really wanted to look good doing it. It’s funny how the things I stress the most over often turn out to not be worth all the energy I invest in them. Of course, my antsy preparation before the class didn’t change how I did. It’s a fatal flaw that many dancers do, which Bo pointed out in class too: “Stop doing extra practice. Look at yourself and have fun.”
Even though I know how much embracing what I want to do for its own sake would make me happy, I find it almost impossible to do. My need for excellence floods my muscles like cold air into a warm room through an ajar window. I have to always be wary, to acknowledge it and move past before it dilutes my every moment.
I’ve been trying to introspect on those moments of heightened awareness, when my emotions string themselves across my heart and take control of the ship from my mind, giving full freedom to my heart. I listen and watch, sitting quietly like the start of a movie.
Why do I focus so much on appearing a certain way? Why do I need to control myself?
What if I just took off all the filters standing between myself and the world? What if I let my romanticism out unchanged?
At the end of all this searching and inspection, I’m grasping for a sense of Deep Okayness as Sasha writes. I know that I have immense inherent value. I know that I am enough. But I’m still learning to think and say both of those in a fully genuine way, not hiding any of my struggles, fears, and needs to not look desperate for presence, love, or understanding.
Because I’m a romantic I believe that I can do anything I set my mind to, that the world can be shaped into a shape meant for me. But I’m also a fatalistic logician, which means I’ll obsess over the one thing that could possibly go wrong and use it as a reason to avoid doing anything. I'm an optimist, which means I believe that everything will turn out ok even if I wing it. But I’m also a people pleaser, which means I’ll stress out about how I’m perceived and the effect it has on others in any situation unless I try to plan out every detail.
I’m getting better at seeing all the ways that I am and seeing romanticism for all the strengths it gives me rather than feeling some need to hide or repress it for the sake of my external appearance. I want to wield it as my superpower, rather than a handicap.
In the end, it’s fruitless to try to change because I don’t know how to act in any other way. I’ll always romanticize my life, moment by moment, emotion by emotion, relationship by relationship. I’ll learn every face of my heart. From unbounded pain, to a mischievous smile, to unstoppable laughter, I vow to never look away, cringe or cut myself off short. Dreaming is in my blood. Love is in my bones. Drama and narrativizing my life, even the little things, is as natural as breathing. Acting in service of everything I think is good and right is my evolutionary heritage; it’s how I learned to survive.
“Like you, I was born. Like you, I was raised in the institution of dreaming. Hand on my heart. Hand on my stupid heart.” — Meditations in an Emergency by Cameron Awkward-Rich
You write like a poem. From your soul
I'm not a romantic person but I absolutely love and adore reading this!