New love is tasteless.I’ve never believed in love.
I grew up knowing all about Cinderella, her prince and his white horse. Sleeping Beauty’s knight in shining armor. This conspicuous theme they never fail to underline and bold in possibly every single movie out there. This disgusting delusional theme they labeled as love.
I was smitten, tossed and shaken by the wonder of it. Such beauty that came out of love—just like in the movies, a happy ever after to exist in life. Love was something everybody sought after. Poets wrote about love, actors manifested love, dreamers dreamt of love. I was in the same chase for love. Always running after the ending I saw in movies—running after my prince whose existence could possibly be only a figment of my imagination.
I grew up in love. Love was preached to me, love was occasionally shown to me. Yet, I’ve never felt love in its entirety. I looked at love as an outsider, like a person looking into a glass bowl. I saw love from the surface but never immersed myself in it. The glass walls were never broken down for me. Soon I realized I would never have love as the princesses in the movies did. Soon I knew the movies were just another’s figment of imagination, and what’s the use to only live in a fancy?
Hence began my distaste for love. I scoffed at the ideals for love. I hated the young immature celebrations of love. Love letters, love notes, love poems, love cards, love kisses; I cringe at the mere sight of them. Balloon filled with confetti representing the endless days I would be with you, 101 roses to signify my undying love for you, loose promises of forever and candy coated words that come easy on the ears. I’d label it as child play. Just like playing with images in your head, like the movies. These elaborate manifestations of love only represented unrealistic notions of naïve individuals caught in this delusion and lie—a lie I feel lucky to have been released from.
Indirectly, love has made me feel burdened. Stifled and smothered. Though I was in an absurd chase for it, looking for it in all the wrong places and even up to the point where I could have almost held it by the hand, I still thought of love as an evil rather than of a good. Rainbows, butterflies and that warm fuzzy feeling never surfaced. My taste of love was of confusion, egoism and abuse. I never thought of love as sacrifice but the more I look into that glass bowl, the more I see that the foundations of love is indeed sacrifice—another item I have found be of more foolishness than of nobility.
Love has left me painfully scarred and the memories of it are branded harshly onto my mind. Perhaps the absence of it for a significant amount of time forced myself to turn my back on love for good. I would no longer accept it, even if it was served to me on a silver platter. Regardless of circumstance, excuses became my next best companion.
I would no longer believe in promises that held brightness in the future, I would be determined to find at least one flaw in it. When love was professed out loud, I doubted the sincerity of words and declared it naïve. When everything seemed perfect and stable, I assumed that this held no excitement or thrill for me anymore.
I have lost all faith in this thing they call love, perhaps in defend of my own being, afraid of reliving the unkind moments it has put me through. To be in love is like a dream, according to some. What is a dream then but something that is temporary and unreal?
This is love; turned cynic.
-By an anonymous.
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HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR TO ALL CELEBRATING! :)