Last night while tweeting a bunch of denials & rationalizations interlaced with valid personal truths, I described myself as “catastrophically romantic and forlorn.”
Most accurate self-description, ever.
I am a Romantic in every sense and I have no desire to change.
Creatively, I’m a romantic. I love the embellishment, I love some excess, an overabundance of syllables, descriptive text, commas. My messaging is about the human journey, the soul, our connection to nature, to the cosmos; the invisible energy of existence.
And in Love, I’m hopelessly – beyond rescue or salvation – Romantic. I can only see the best in my lovers, even when they’re being the worst. Because I’m constantly searching for that invisible truth, interlaced through all our interactions, the definitive piece of their composition and the intangible links between us.
Even when an affair has run it’s course and I figure out when to walk away, I always hold some fondness to these men because Romanticism has made my eyesight permanently rose-colored.
Yet, all my interpersonal interactions are plagued by fear and paranoia.
What am I so afraid of? What is anyone really afraid when dealing with others? Abandonment, disregard, unworthiness, deceit. The usual fair.
Being human is dangerous stuff. People lie, they belittle us. They project, they abuse. There is plenty to fear.
I think of the English guy I’d tangled up my head with last summer. It took about a month and a half, but I eventually realized he was in love with our mutual friend. And I wondered how and why he punished himself by (and others, me) by living with her and starting up affairs with women he didn’t want, while constantly boasting of his own charm and sex appeal.
Obviously, anyone who boasts so emphatically about their attractiveness is super insecure.
And you know, I don’t mean that as an insult. Everyone has insecurities. I constantly fear I’m talentless, and also that I’m not good in bed. So I overcompensate by starting as many creative projects as I possibly can, relentlessly hunting new clientele and ideas. And I unapologetically sleep with as many hot guys as spark my fancy. It’s a thing, and it’s spurred on entirely by fear.
So I thought of Tony, and how, despite his callousness and reckless verbal cruelty toward me, he actually possessed so much potential to be an incredible partner [to the woman of his dream]. I knew that in his heart Tony wanted a beautiful and meaning partnership with someone compatible – as so many of us do.
I wondered why he didn’t just open himself up a little bit more, and be honest about his need, rather than defensive and performative.
For why do we showcase and parade these false personas when what we seek is true Love? How can truth ever find us so long as we present our identities as lies?
Why not be exactly who we are: soft, tender, vulnerable and lonely humans in need of strong and gentle, enduring connection? Well, of course being that way is frightening.
If only we could dispel the fear that true love isn’t real. If only we could delve beneath that fear and look at the real problem: that we believe we’re undeserving. If only we could forgive ourselves our youth, our mistakes, our overinflated sense of wrongdoing.
Everyone of us has fucked up and wronged someone, hurt another heart either by accident or intentionally as a means of self-preservation. It happens all the time.
But to break these patterns we have to forgive ourselves. We must be gentle with our own humanity, and then we must bare it.
My Romanticism is a drug.
For me it’s like a dream I had the other night. I was spending time with Carter Bazen (the other incorrigible bad boy from Gossip Girl). Of course, in dreams, the painfully good looking bad boy wears a projection of my ideal lover.
He was honest, and tender, and calming. He was a stable, safe, and welcoming energy I simply wanted to be near, someone with whom I could communicate with for hours on end in dream time. There was no hot and fiery sexual passion. His physical beauty was enough, but the real enchantment of the dream lay in the beauty of our time spent together.
We were just talking and revealing ourselves, sharing our truths. As dream people are simply reflections of our subconcious, I was simply talking to and connecting with myself. But you know, it’s the feeling, the ideal, the Romanticism of the idea of finding and connecting with a soulmate.
How else can two people form a true connection, if not through revelation of the self?
I think a lot of us are secretly Romantics. I think in our mad and outrageously unjust world, as we battle the collective and personal anxieties of modern existence, we are also realizing a deep yearning for more compassion and forgiveness and pure, gentle Love.
It is work, to be honest with ourselves, to examine our gameplay and the ways we block our own blessings.
But at the end of it all, it is just a game. Despite how dramatic it seems on the day-to-day, and sometimes, even, moment-to-moment.
Once you get a good look at your fears, you realize they are only play things. And ultimately they are no bigger than your desires, unless you want them to be, unless you imagine and will it so.
I say Love isn’t real, but I kid. Love is the only real thing. And I believe we can control it if we try, in so far as we can either invite it in, or we can pelt pink tennis balls of untruths and projections of fear at it, and hope it will prove its endurance to us through useless abuse.
How silly a thing.
This is the interplay, deciding how we want to interact with the Love.