In the New York Times is a column I particularly relish, Modern Love, a series of contemporary real-life love stories written by lovers themselves. Elsewhere too, I am always curious: what brings two people together, what tears them apart, what made them certain, and really how do they make love stay. Relationships, and the ebb and flow of them have always fascinated me. I listen with gusto when dinner-time conversations revolve around how they met. And, with despair when the stories obsess the why’s of how they fell apart.
It is something to think about isn’t it: why some of us have it easier, and some of us take longer, and some of us meet so many wrongs before the right, and some of us never meet right at all. Why some of us have ourselves up against love, some yield ever so easily, some grow wary with time, and some treat it as something so ordinary.
I am hardly adept at love or relationships, but I can say love is so unordinary, I almost marvel at those who dismiss it or regard it as if a mere acquaintance. My own tussles with what love means, and how it shows have perhaps magnified it into an enormous, almost unattainable emotion reserved for few. Love exists, but perhaps not for me.
It takes then, an old friend to sit you down. Tell you love is attainable, love is as ordinary as it is unordinary, but to let love in, you always need to let your guard down.
I have become so afraid of losing someone I care gravely about, and so afraid of whether or not I know for certain what love is, and so afraid of allowing myself to love: it takes a good friend to sit me down…
Tell me love has no surety. There was no easy answer. And there was no easy way to give it out as measuredly as the person in front of you.
You had to be cautious, and then, you had to give in…