Romance - for what purpose?
Sometimes I feel that - I must either be incapable of love, or that all romances are false, and I've finally seen through the bliddy bubble.
You know, there's just this personality streak in me that drives me to defy and question all things considered natural in this world, and what would be called more natural than love? Perhaps my statement is too hasty, perhaps it is because, so far, I have never felt true love, or my idea of true love. Can true love be fickle, proud, and faulted? Can I love without there being some advantageous reason for me to do so?It seems that I have longed for, and accepted, romance simply because the idea was attractive to me : To experience palpitations of the heart, the longing, the jealousy , the owning and belonging. Ah!But do I really care for tie individual to whom my affections are seemingly bestowed? So far I have as yet to know what it is to love without vanity.
Even noble love seems false to me. For now that men and women are more equal it is difficult to say that anyone is so perfect as to deserve all the respect/adoration that a mate may shower upon him. I see in my school young lovers, people who have barely known each other for a year before they are holding hands. How long can such affection last? And to what end? I do not long for the pain and jadedness that would accompany the end. Rather would the first I hand my heart to in innocence be enduring.
On another subject, I do not know whether it makdes people or if they do not notice it, but often I find myself irrepressibly drawn to staring at people : at their visages, inflections in their voices, the way they hold themselves and fit themselves into life. I know it is rude, yet it seems the only way I can connect to people. To understand them deeply, the reason to why they are what they are. Only with understanding do I find true congenality in myself. I fancy myself open-minded, yet too many times I meet individuals whose intents and purposes I cannot understand at all. Why are they willing to be who they are? Sometimes, I catch myself, and wonder if I'm entirely sure of my own intentions? Always, I come away hollow. I never find what I seek, however intensely I try.
I find myself making up excuses for my aloofness. I do not wish to know their names, to converse animatedly with them. Is it a fault not to make friends everywhere you go? It if is, I truly have not the strength the remedy it. Why must I sink myself deeper into iniquity? If I make an effort to associate, it would not be entirely sincere, thus it would be a lie. I feel already quite empty, will making empty gestures fulfill me? It is easy to say: Those who are content are happy. It is not easy to be always content. Sometimes I think I was born either to contemplate the world or to help. I cannot stand the thought that I would be entirely unuseful to the world.
You know, there's just this personality streak in me that drives me to defy and question all things considered natural in this world, and what would be called more natural than love? Perhaps my statement is too hasty, perhaps it is because, so far, I have never felt true love, or my idea of true love. Can true love be fickle, proud, and faulted? Can I love without there being some advantageous reason for me to do so?It seems that I have longed for, and accepted, romance simply because the idea was attractive to me : To experience palpitations of the heart, the longing, the jealousy , the owning and belonging. Ah!But do I really care for tie individual to whom my affections are seemingly bestowed? So far I have as yet to know what it is to love without vanity.
Even noble love seems false to me. For now that men and women are more equal it is difficult to say that anyone is so perfect as to deserve all the respect/adoration that a mate may shower upon him. I see in my school young lovers, people who have barely known each other for a year before they are holding hands. How long can such affection last? And to what end? I do not long for the pain and jadedness that would accompany the end. Rather would the first I hand my heart to in innocence be enduring.
On another subject, I do not know whether it makdes people or if they do not notice it, but often I find myself irrepressibly drawn to staring at people : at their visages, inflections in their voices, the way they hold themselves and fit themselves into life. I know it is rude, yet it seems the only way I can connect to people. To understand them deeply, the reason to why they are what they are. Only with understanding do I find true congenality in myself. I fancy myself open-minded, yet too many times I meet individuals whose intents and purposes I cannot understand at all. Why are they willing to be who they are? Sometimes, I catch myself, and wonder if I'm entirely sure of my own intentions? Always, I come away hollow. I never find what I seek, however intensely I try.
I find myself making up excuses for my aloofness. I do not wish to know their names, to converse animatedly with them. Is it a fault not to make friends everywhere you go? It if is, I truly have not the strength the remedy it. Why must I sink myself deeper into iniquity? If I make an effort to associate, it would not be entirely sincere, thus it would be a lie. I feel already quite empty, will making empty gestures fulfill me? It is easy to say: Those who are content are happy. It is not easy to be always content. Sometimes I think I was born either to contemplate the world or to help. I cannot stand the thought that I would be entirely unuseful to the world.
posted by Mignon Chang at 8:24 AM
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