Few days back, I just turned 23. This time, I invited my college friends—a bunch of book lovers and level-headed ladies who long before realizing it, had already shattered their rose-colored glasses. Over chicken lollipops and gravied meat, they made me recount a romantic encounter. And in unison that spaced me out, their verdict was: "It wasn't love."
I didn't ask them if something's wrong with me. I knew the answer beforehand. But they all knew, as we most are, that love for me isn't spelled just how other construct it.
Now I'm being recalled by the remarkable young gay couple that I spotted strolling around Greenhills one Sunday. The way they walk as each other's company, the way they bring themselves, the way they try to put a marginal gap between them to respect norms but ultimately can't since their emotions for each other is too strong I bet, it makes me happy for them.
If that is love how come it doesn't work for me? Perhaps, a friend was right: Our refined definition of love is taking its toll on us. I have this arcane view of romance that even the fairies of your so-called fairy tales will have a hard time weaving a story for me. And before raising a brow on me for being too particular when in fact I am not the most good-looking guy out here, please understand that it's more of a brunt to bear for me than it is a dust that irritates you.
At 23, my universe has expanded so wide that whenever I get to unravel my sky of thoughts before a guy, it seems to befuddle them. For most time, in what is an effort for me to initiate what I think is a healthy dose of mental exercise that will lead to an inebriating talk, turns out to be a chance for me to confirm that "Yes, I am a bit weird."
No. I'm no genius. It's just that, I'm able to create thoughts beyond my age. Add to that my sheer introversion, I've concluded long ago that I am hard to understand. That there are ideas in my head that only few people of my age can understand. (When I was still in Planet Romeo, most of my online friends there are in the 30s.) There is so much complexities in me and ponderings that sometimes, I detest human interaction. I fear that people won't understand my breadth and depth and that will only leave a pang on my soul.
Perhaps the hardest part in being a single is that you have been with yourself for so long that you've founded a set of principles that you won't ever want to sacrifice for an irrational thing that is love.
That I sent through SMS to two friends. I guess I've been intimate with myself for a very long period of time that I don't know how it is to, well, be with someone.
For the time being I have to stop because this rambling is really, really, really getting me nowhere but to lack of sleep.