All my life, I have been a romantic, and I am not ashamed of it.
It is patterned into my DNA, a string of hearts twined with the twisted thread of the Double-Helix. It is an element of my soul.
Every now and again, however, this lands me in trouble. Not anything catastrophic, mind you: just little irksome occurrences that eventually add up to sour a day, or a week. Or a month.
This is because I have an unshakeable habit of idealizing every creature who I feel the slightest stirrings of romantic feeling for.
Which is fine, if I do end up talking to them, but not so fine if the years drag on without any human contact, as by then a bumpkin will have been transformed, unfortunately, into a Prince.
That happened. Recently. The worst part was the scorn, or ridicule, I received, from the object of my idealization. The way the lad carried on, you’d have thought I had shackled him in marital chains or something. To him, it appeared as if I were stalking him, though if you happen to attend the same school it’s hard not to bump into each other now and again.
And yet, I still haven’t given up a teensy-tiny hope of a possible connection, or friendship.
How loathsome, to find your heart entangled with someone so egotistical and cruel and arrogant, and yet for some part of you to still go on hoping, hoping, hoping, like a silly, pining, little princess.
I’m not a silly princess: I have my own dreams, my own goals, I am independent as any girl my age can be considering my family situation, and I do not need someone to love me to feel complete. Not when I have my art.
After all, why chase boys when you can have books?
Most of all, my ego, my pride, is hurt, at being scorned so; and I am, if you get to the core of it, angry at myself. Furious for funneling my imaginative energies into romantic impossibilities. Furious for lowering myself to the level of a silly, pining maiden. Fairy dust can leave a bad taste in your mouth, I’ll tell you that.
In these cases, the best thing to do is to forgive, and love yourself, and not to go on hating yourself, as this means you are only absorbing the scorn of others. Only you live your life, through your particular lens of consciousness. Only you know your own suffering, and joy.
Being misunderstood or shunned or ridiculed by others has cost many lives throughout history, be it bullied students, or scientists ahead of their times. If we just keep things in perspective, and realise that only we ourselves are the true sovereign of our minds and bodies, irrespective of external stimuli, then we can stay strong.
Hurt pride is a sorry thing. Shame ensues, and hate for the perpetrator. But there is no need to hate, or resent.
No: I do not resent him, for his arrogance, and coldness. Instead, I shall respond from a place of love, a bottomless reservoir of affection that lies within me for all living creatures.
I do not hate you, for what you did to me.
I do not hate you (though I do not forgive you), for the lack of respect and kindness you showed me.
I do not hate myself, for blinding myself to your flaws, or seeking love. In fact, your personality reminds me a good deal of my father’s, who never bestowed any affection upon me; perhaps my yearning for your companionship was even a subconscious desire for reconciliation with my father. Who knows?
I also do not hate myself for possessing this romantic little soul, though I have learned a lesson, however small and imperfect.
No. No. I do not, will not hate.
From a place of love, I will not chafe against your ego anymore by clinging onto dream-threads.
From a place of love, I will live my own life, and let you live yours: if our paths do ever cross again, it will not be from any design on my part.
From a place of love, I will forgive myself for my schoolgirl fantasies.
From a place of love, I will allow myself to rise above this pain, and surface a stronger being to build my own castles, not in the clouds, but on earth.
Love brought me into this mess. It can get me out of it. My heart is strong – very, very strong.