I don’t know about you, but I’ve always believed in soul mates.
That there is a single human being out there, strolling upon this planet, who is perfect for me, and I for him, only we are currently unbeknownst to one another, and one day we will meet, and our souls will merge as one and it will be perfect, man, just perfect. Our lives will be complete, and we shall view the world through a film of lovey-dovey joy of mother-of-pearl sheen.
Even after I scoffed at it, derisively terming it a ‘stupid fantasy’ hatched from the mother-hen of Hollywood which we all gobbled up as shit-filled omelets for breakfast every morning, even then, some tiny part inside of me, deep down, whispered to itself and hoped. Some part of me wasn’t repelled, even after society presented to us its idea of true love on a rusted platter as a chunk of beating, spurting heart-meat, and crammed it down our throats until we tasted iron on our tongues before we fell asleep each night.
As if pretending not to believe would it make it come true. If I just ignore it, maybe it’ll come to me. Surprise me when I least expect it. That’s how the world works, right?
I wanted it to work that way. Desperately. I wanted soul mates to exist, not only because I had bought into the movies and the books, or wanted to be saved by a knight in shining armor, or wanted romance.
No – it was mainly because I was lonely, as an introverted and sensitive dreamer who no-one seemed to understand.
So I placed all my hopes on this concept, in the hopes that it would plug up the holes of my existence.
Now, I’m truly waking up. I’ve dragged my head out of the clouds to prevent the tearing disappointment of shattered illusions, an experience I know all too well.
I don’t think two people are destined for one another, that pairs of souls are carved out of the same rocks by the great Something before the beginning of Time, distilled in random physical bodies, pulsating in these flesh receptacles. That the world, if seen through a pair of metaphysical glasses, is thronged with these floating, multi-colored pulsations, moving around, the shimmery souls beneath the transparent skin of human beings each a unique kaleidoscope of color, pumping out a unique beat, trying to find their other soul-stone originating from the same geode.
It’s a lovely fantasy. But, even as a dreamer, I realize it’s not real.
What’s real is compatibility. Empathy. Other people in the world who are HSPs, introverts, INFPs, dreamers, idealists or writers, who can understand, not as soul mates, but as fellow humans with hearts and minds. It’s about people, not a tantalizing illusion of an often god-like omniscient partner who can turn you inside out and know the path of every vein from the tips of your toes to your brain.
It’s about not-perfect people who have not-perfect minds, whose opinions are clouded with prejudice and well, themselves, the particular lenses of their eyes. People who sometimes can’t see into the depths of your soul, can’t read your mind all the time. People who find you confusing, and you them. People who can’t fill up the gaping wound of existential loneliness. And it’s messy, and there are misunderstandings, and it might make you want to throw in the towel and escape from the reality of love.
And that’s okay. It’s not as good as the fantasy, obviously. But it’s okay, and though not better, still pretty good, because it’s real and not hinged on the wing of a fairy. Fantasies are all fine and dandy, but sometimes, the realness of reality, the blood-and-flesh closeness of it, is more magical. More fantastical. Just, nicer, because you can touch it and feel it, and it’s not just in your mind, where the romantic reel sputters to a close the moment you open your eyes.
I’m not cool with it, but I can accept it.