Don’t you just hate infatuations? And if you’re anything like me, you tend to imagine too much and over-think things, all of which only serve to fuel the Lovey-Dovey Machine Of Airy-Fairy Not Real Dreams. You become a powerhouse, churning out broken dream after broken dream.
And no matter how terrible it feels, we still love it. Because we’re in love with love, and the feeling of love, and maybe we need to grow up a little bit more before we can let infatuation’s steady sister, true love, worm its way into our lives.
Here is a typical cycle of infatuation for me:
Sees object of infatuation → Falls in “love” → Start analyzing and watching them from afar like a creepy person → Falls further in “love” → Pine and mope internally for years without plucking up the courage to talk to them → Obsess over them AKA dream about the perfect marriage, the perfect holiday, the perfect argument, even → Get worried about how long the infatuation has been going on for → Tries to talk to person → TOO SCARED → Tries again (and again and again and again…) → Rejected (at this point, anything other than an emphatic declaration of love is perceived as a rejection) → Wallows in misery, write epic love stories and poems about it → Sees a new object of infatuation → Cycle repeats
Here is the infatuation cycle for normal, sane people.
Sees object of infatuation → Talks to them → Friendship/romance/apathy ensues
Why do we do this? I think it’s because, as I said before, we’re in love with love. We love the drama, the ecstatic highs and the bone-crushing lows. In many ways, we’re like addicts: hooked on the feeling of pining and yearning and loving from afar. It’s almost masochistic, in many ways, like the page who tries to serenade an untouchable noble woman who stares down at him from her balcony. Maybe it’s because I’m an INFP, and nothing gets our eyes shining and our hearts going than tragedy and pain and longing and loss, all of which are beautiful in their silent misery and suffering.
Or maybe, deep down, it’s just a way for us to avoid the true thing: that is, of actually letting someone into our hearts and minds and souls. Even though we yearn for love so hard our souls tilt our of our chests with hunger, we’re still scared of it. When we let people in, they mess us up, rearrange the organs, skew the heart, and tangle up the veins and sinew. Letting people in, so they can see both our light and good sides, is terrifying. We idealise ourselves as much as others, and for another person to see our refracted rather than crystal-clear self is agonising. Daydreams, in the end, are an act of avoidance: we don’t want to face reality. We’d rather stew in quiet, imagined pain, rather than actually be stabbed, butchered. But even dreamers know that no fantasy can ever compare to reality.
So. We must grow up, a little. We must talk to people, even if we’re afraid of being shot down. We must wrangle our way out of our heads, push ourselves upon the world outwardly rather than inwardly. We must build our sandcastles in the real world, even if they pale in comparison to the crystalline towers in our our minds. Sometimes, floating down from the clouds allows us to truly enjoy the riches of the earth, and, let me tell you, there are many to savour indeed.