Today I cleaned my book shelf and got rid of those I don’t use, or at least had kept them somewhere not very visible. In other words, got rid of them, still. And no, it isn’t out of my controllable and self-proclaimed obsessive compulsive attacks. I was told to do so, and instead of getting lazy and getting irritable about cleaning, I took it as part of the growing tradition of the generation of having a “throwback” every Thursday since they are things from the past. My bookshelf does not have a lot of relevant stuff in it besides the books and a dictionary. What occupies most parts of it are my notebooks that are either empty or partly used. (If you know me well enough, you’d understand the notebook hullabaloo).
So anyway, to cut the time record short, I found a notebook I have for, believe it or not, my future boyfriend. Who, of course, is still in all forms mythical and fictional. I’ve always been guilty of being a hopeless romantic. I mean, aren’t we all? But anyway, whatever level or type of a hopeless romantic does letters and poems for someone who still isn’t there, that’s where I am. The notebook gave me so much to insult about myself and at the same time, have that tingling self-pity. Which is also something to insult myself about. “How desperate of you”. It may seem like it, but I’d like to think that chasing men and being the one to court the guy instead, is what desperate looks like. And I’m glad I still haven’t gone that insane.
Thinking of it, I’m pretty amazed how I still manage to keep that hope. Since I am aiming to be as honest as I can be with my blogs, yes, I have met guys who are either considered complicated or those who are full of themselves that they just cannot stand not being with a girl.. or two. But let’s just put it in a more profound term of ‘immature’. And it probably isn’t as poignant to take someone else’s experience to drive that cynic in me, but I believe that since I have lost count on how many experiences I’ve heard and have even tried to help out to, you may not probably blame the hopeless romantic to stay as hopeless. Or more of, doubtful and terrified. What are the odds that the guys who would come along are not beasts in disguise? The last phrase is metaphorical, of course. I wouldn’t want men to huff and puff my door down for pertaining “beasts” to them.
The songs and chick flicks are either helping and making it look more messy. Yes, this post shows how confusing my stand is on the topic of ‘love’, but it only reflects how it appears to me. I can say that I am not completely cynical about it, and I suppose I wouldn’t want that to happen. But there are affirmations and undeniable proofs on the downside of it that one cannot simply disagree or declare fallacious, thus making it more or less appalling.
On the contrary, the hope to find that foreordained person who is, of course, simply expected to assure me that I need not doubt anything, is still rose-colored. The person who would realistically make me feel worth it. By realistic I would want to mean that I am very much human and I have countless flaws and I have insecurities that may just jab down my attitude and turn me into a more difficult person to deal with, but show me I’m still very much fitting to be appreciated, respected and treated like none of those matters. Someone who would actually accept every bit of me and would not want to change me, but would help me become better.
But going back to being realistic, as of now, everything’s chaotic and all we can do is to let it all fall into all their believed-to-be right places, and let the wishful thinking stay in blog posts.