The Curse of The Star-Crossed: Time For A Revelation

Some would argue the circles of metal in their palms run this world. And in their hearts as cold as that metal, they're right. As much as we romantics would love to slap them in the face with what we hope to be the truth, we can't change how it all works, no matter how cruel and harsh we find the reality. I've been in the shoes of "the chaser" and "the reacher" my whole life, never given the opportunity to be the one in charge, the one that decides when to break hearts and when to heal them. Perhaps that's a little harsh to those that wake up one morning with all the power resting in their hands. Maybe some don't want it, maybe some don't wish to be the heart breaker. Possibly, the damnation lies in our human condition, the desire to pursue love until it's an attainable commodity that gives our lives "meaning". We are so horrified by our inherent loneliness we snatch up the nearest person, deluded by a non-existent spark, all as an elaborate protest towards our own genetic curse. I'm sure many of you are shaking your heads because you and your other half have been married for this many years or you and your partner occupied the same living space for such and such a time or the most pitiful argument yet: we had children together.

I struggle to grasp the meaning behind these empty occurrences, none of them aspiring to confirm "love". These achievements are not a certificate for you to wave around, proof of your attainment of love with another being. Even worse, there are many of us damned to maintain our own personal Hell by hovering aimlessly in the desolate state of running after a train that holds that one person we never quite get over. It's a combination of our own doing and theirs, the heart breaker. Having never gained power over another in a relationship, I cannot describe the ins and outs of such a position and I'm sure somewhere, there is a blogger blowing up their blog with rantings of the sorrowful decision of smashing another's heart. Excuse my cynicism.

Allow me to demonstrate. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I was distraught to realise Daisy Buchanan's disgusting irresponsible lack of compassion for a man that acted only ever on her behalf. His only request; she returned his love. Her husband Tom was that revolting type that show their scruffy faces and stubborn stupidity ever once in a while. While he was choking on expensive cigars and donning pastel sweaters, he was running his nasty fingers all over every pretty woman in sight. Daisy enjoyed feigning upset, allowing Gatsby to cradle her and promise he'd fix it all for her. She frolicked at his parties with the best of them (sarcasm) and mirrored feelings to disguise the icy rot that had feasted on her heart and soul at birth. With many chances to redeem herself, including Jay's funeral, she recklessly fled with abusive hubby in tow, off to frolic into some more billionaire parties and crush some dreams with her pinkie finger. Jay Gatsby, misconstrued as a foolhardy liar, flirt and criminal with vanity as glossy as the front covers of Vogue, was really just mislead into a harsh world, hoping one day his lover would confess her feelings and grow old with him. Perhaps his redemption for being so gullible was his selfless love for Daisy, an individual so unlovable by the rest of the human population.

"I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made."

I have been severely unfortunate in life to have kissed the lips of such people that toy with beating hearts and hopeful dreams, that dig their claws into one's skin so deep they become another limb, another part of you. They are careless types and should we romantics waste time attempting to cure the immutable of their sins? Perhaps we are better off running as fast as that speeding train, passing it by as our one unattainable lover looks on aghast and envious of our freedom to live without the chains of discontent reining us in.

Through my distraught emotional moments after stumbling into the disheartening plot and character of Daisy Buchanan, I searched for meaning and discovered it in a wonderful article speaking for the Star-Crossed chasers of true love by Clarisse Thorn.

At its worst, here are the tactics: You end up measuring every last signal of affection, to make sure it’s not an overreach or a demand. You end up asking questions to gauge his state of mind, and clenching your fists under the table until your nails cut into your palms so that you have the self-control to smile when he gives you answers you don’t want to hear. He might even notice how much pain you’re in, but you know you can’t confirm his suspicions, for fear that he’ll get stressed out and leave. So if he asks what’s wrong, then you turn away or laugh and change the subject and don’t say: What’s wrong is that I just decided this has to end, because it’s the fifth time you decided that tonight, and you know you won’t stick to it. And then you go home and use every last ounce of willpower not to call him, and hope against hope that he won’t call you, because you know you’ll pick up the phone way too fast, and be pathetically eager to do whatever he wants.

I never found the words yesterday to explain the nature of my wish to burst into tears filled with empty promises as I made a very big mistake. Even though I put every part of my heart, soul and being into it, things just didn't work out the way I'd hoped. I kissed coldly and returned home empty-handed to a barren room filled with mocking memories: reminders that I was not and could not be loved again by this boy, in any universe or circumstance. As heartbreaking as it feels, like a rocky earthquake of the cardiac muscle, I have passed by the train without bothering to wave to him.

In the words of Fitzgerald, "There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired", and I am most assuredly the permanent pursuing and the tired.


(http://www.rolereboot.org/sex-and-relationships/details/2012-07-loving-someone-who-doesnt-love-you-back)