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)

The Post-Love War: Is it all you need?

I can't say I'm terribly more qualified than the average reader in this domain. Maybe you didn't notice but seventeen years of school ties around one's neck isn't much different to a stripy noose. Even so, I can speak from personal experience but don't expect it to be decorated with billion dollar castles and dashing princes on white horses leaping out of fairy tales.

There are abundant slick little phrases that describe love, billions of books so eloquent, from Romeo and Juliet to Jane Eyre. As the tales commonly begin, I wasn't interrogating every testosterone-ridden teenage male in a five mile radius for my other half. To be honest, I can't imagine many people that would carry out such an effort. As the story usually starts, we were friends first of all. I could go as far as to argue that there were sparks immediately, perhaps in a way I had yet to fully comprehend. I need not to wander into the depths of detail and I can inform you that things soured too quickly for anyone to notice it was out of date.

Two years have shed and life is a very shaken-but-not-stirred kind of paradise. So what is this bizarre thing we dedicate so much of our limited and precious time to? Religious leaders have sworn it is the mark of Gods, mothers said it was in their smiles when they first held their babies in their arms. For decades, the great philosophers have bickered that it could be all just an illusion of the complex mind. Nowadays, animal rights activists will protest that other species are born with it too. Scientists spew out five thousand word dissertations on chemicals in the human brain in their sleep and psychologists will each individually define nature over nurture and past experiences as "the key". How can we possibly answer this question?

A different viewpoint is needed. Average out human life events. Birth, early years, school, next stage in school, university/college, work, marriage, children, more work, retirement, hobbies, grandchildren, illness and finally death. A grim description of a very normal eighty or so years. However, let's cut out the generic gooey "fall-in-love" stage.
After some careful thought, I believe our desire to love and be loved by others is our intrinsic horror of our own individuality among a pack of over seven billion, the harsh realisation of our contained impact on the globe that dies with us upon becoming an octogenarian and a defense barrier to protect us from the poisonous negativity and bitter hate that thrives within a corruptible doubtful species such as our own. And to the scientists, I must tell you that I don't quite have the same emotions munching on a chocolate bar as kissing my beloved goodbye. Chemistry isn't everything, is it, Mister Potter?

The consequences of rejecting the joy-inducing Beatles song seem rather severe. However, I think we can use our logic to say shelter and food would remain our main sustenance - unless you are a vicious love-gobbling monster going under the alias of Ian Duncan Smith. Why do we need it? Is it essential? Well yes and no. To some degree, love is a necessary ingredient for the cake of a human life to rise to proper maturity and sophistication. There are thousands of studies that state in order for your little mini-you to become the doctor/lawyer/engineer/dancer that you so hope them to be, you must love your child and show this affection on a daily basis - sounds tedious. Scum that neglect their offspring can inspire terrible events in which can land that particular kid in care, living with other family members, being bullied, assaulted, turning violent, aggressive, in trouble with the police, lonely, with mental health problems, a drug dependency or onto the streets to live or make their wage out of desperation. The list composes itself. And so, since it is essential to enable babies, infants and children to form bonds with family and others, is love so important after these developmental stages? Does it still shape us as a person during adulthood?

Again, the answer is interchangeable. We have grown up with a good childhood, minimal issues, healthy relationships with family and friends. Now what do we do? Do we still need the elixir of love? I would argue, yes. This is because in order to maintain that healthy mind and personality we require a dose every so often. And the tearful reality is that many do not reach the developmental stages with full love and support. Plenty of adults will speak of neglect and abuse present in their younger years. But now more questions have been raised than answered; What happens when we reject offerings of love?

I name this my "Post-Love" era. To the ear it sings a depressing tune but I personally find peace. Perhaps humanity has become severely dependent upon receiving lashings of love and we have detached from the selfless endurance that is caring for one without expecting a form of "payment". Suffering through rejection with an open heart is the most eye-opening glimpse of reality one could ever dream of. You might be curiously confused yet I have discovered the experience somewhat liberating. This enables you to empathise in the shoes of another, to logically piece together their situation and to apply compassion as a strong shield of armour around them. Without pain we are not "human". As an artist, I can appreciate the quaint beauty that twists through everything.
Although, I have been informed by several friends that denying love and affection is self-neglect of the mind, soul and heart and I am merely cutting off a metaphorical poisoned limb to ease the burning loneliness if I convince myself I am a better person without it. Understanding their opinion is different from accepting it. They make a fair point - to deny others is to deny our own essence and being. But I am not doing this out of spite. I think it more of a respite from constant chasing of whimsical things that are unlikely to exist and by that I mean the pursuit of one's true love. It would be very difficult as a human to not desire to believe in such a fantasy but it is in no way logical. Love exists but no two people are perfect for each other.

My motivation? Constant rejection. Loneliness. Watching marriages crumble, divorce papers flying in with the wind, rebuffed children, families separated by continents, murder, abuse of babies and infants, kids dumped in care. Surely we need to address other people's happiness instead of diving into the pool without thought to grab ours first. It's not a path I wish to jog down because it is a wasteful hateful way that will lead straight to unfulfilled dreams gathering dust on a wonky shelf. We forget we have the ability to love without being tied into a give-and-take contract.

Rejecting the common love-and-be-loved ideal does not mean you can't hum along to that catchy Beatles tune. When it's over, you should visualise all the billions of minds inspired by those words, empty hearts that found kindness in those notes, pain healed by the dedication rather than the band watching the clock spin while playing tonsil-tennis with their beloveds. Because that would be all we needed.