The Other Blog

I’m a romantic, I’m a cynic. What am I? She said I’m special, unique. Everyone’s unique. No, I’m different. I cannot be stereotyped. And I will not be modest enough to deny that. But I’m a romantic and a cynic, and I’m a perfectionist. What am I?

I don’t know.

Sometimes, I think I think too much. Do I? Maybe. I comfort myself by saying that I’d rather be this way than not. I’d rather think a lot and find wisdom and the pride that comes with it, but I often find myself craving the bliss that comes with ignorance. Should I want to be like someone else? Should I want to be satisfied just a little easier? There are people for whom the smallest of things become the biggest of things, and the little things in life are all they care about. I dream big. I don’t think I’ll be satisfied with a partner for life, I want a soul-mate, I want that one that’s been made for only me.

A juvenile idea, that’s what it is, I know. But I’ve already professed I’m a romantic. And I’m a cynic too, because I know that stuff like that only happens in movies and books, in a world that’s only meant to entertain and enthrall us, make us wish we were the characters in a story with a perfect ending, and we’ll live happily ever after…but I know we won’t.

Settle for something less, settle for something reachable, settle for something practical. Yes, I know that, thank you very much, because I say it to myself every day. But I’ve also been a firm proponent of the idea that we have almost no control over the way we feel, sometimes. We have control over our actions, but that’s different. I have no control over what makes me angry, but I can control the urge to smash the mirror or to throw a rock at someone. I can’t control when I feel sad, or get a feeling that something bad is going to happen. Another juvenile, childish, clichéd phrase, I know, I know.

I also cannot deny that just as every end once had a beginning, every beginning is the beginning of an end, at some point. The honeymoon is over, and the relationship is bound to change. I’ve been preparing myself for this all along. Have I not experienced something like this already? Why then does it bother me?

Is this irrelevant to what I’ve been writing so far? If you’re reading this, then yes it is. If I’m writing it, then no, it’s not. I don’t blame you for not understanding. If you wrote it, and I read it, I wouldn’t understand it either. This is just a free flow of thoughts, condensed, beaten, moulded against their will into words, for thoughts have no structure, no words, no shape or colour or touch or sound. And this is why I cut my writing short, because as the thoughts flow from one to the other, they end up dangerously toeing the line of incoherence. And this is where I’ll stop now.

Dear 20.2,

I used to think that 20 fascinated me. She did, but perhaps fascination is an exagerration. I certainly am interested in knowing her better. I might even go so far as to say, even at this point when I think I know her a little better, that I wouldn’t mind if she was a little more attracted to me. That being said, however, nowadays, I find my attention being grabbed more and more by you. If the two of you are in the same room, I’d rather be sitting with you than with her, I find. You’ve definitely got a more charming smile, but that has to be taken for granted considering I’ve always been a sucker for your smile. I’m beginning to find more things about you attractive now, like your soft voice, your eyes and your face. And when I say “face”, I mean how it all just falls into place, in sync with your smile.

I might have given a little more room to my emotions and feelings had you not been going out with someone else though. For now, I restrain myself from flirting with you or telling you how attractive you really are.