an old late night epiphany.
written: 12:48 a.m. on Monday, Oct. 23, 2006

Human beings and the human heart are laughable things. She knows this much after watching the perennial human dramedy unfold: boy meets girl, boy falls for girl and vice versa, boy and girl go out, boy changes his mind, and in the end girl is left crying to her mother and asking �why doesn�t he like me�. It�s a heart-wrenching question, no doubt; to a cynic like her though, it�s always been something more hilariously pathetic than heart-wrenching.

As much as she�d like to believe she�s immune to such displays of idiocy, the fact that she recently succumbed to a situation exactly like the one described above makes her reluctantly give way. The truth is now out in the open: she�s not as unattainable and desirable as she�d like to think; heartbreak isn�t always dished out by her, but it can happen to her; and there are, gasp, boys that end up not wanting her.

It�s a curious situation, she thinks, the way the human heart works. One minute you�re head over heels in love with the other person, and the next you�re absolutely hating his guts. How does this work? How do you fall over and over again and still pick yourself up and fling yourself back into the playing field? She�s only been burnt once, but that single exception is enough to turn her off to all notions of romance for good. It�s too much, it�s too little, it�s not worth it, you get your priorities twisted and end up making a mess of the things that are truly important. What is a fickle two-month romantic fling worth? How do you measure the worth of your heart by potentially meaningless saccharine declarations of �love�?

And there it is, that L word. It strikes her funny the way couples proclaim, �I love you!� a mere two weeks after getting together. Do people not value the meaning of that word anymore? If you truly love someone how can you stand to break up with that person a mere five months later? The word �love� is like a recycled formula pop song writers use to churn out carbon copy hits which the guileless masses lap up like a hungry dog; it no longer has any real meaning, she thinks, and it�s not just her cynicism talking.

She believed in love too, once upon a time. A person has to at some point in her life. She spent afternoons and nights conjuring up mental movies of idealistic (read: deluded, she now sardonically thinks) love at first sight, of being swept away by that one perfect boy who�d fill her up so completely that she�d never have to look for another person again, of deep, meaningful and consuming Love that makes her feel alive.

She can�t remember now the basis for her childish fantasies. Maybe it was the movies and books that were to blame, for feeding her preposterous lies that skewed her perception of the real world; maybe she�s just unlucky, period; or maybe, just maybe, it was never meant to be.

Being cynical automatically means not believing in fate and destiny and lofty notions of a grand blueprint that details a person�s life the minute he�s born. Being cynical also means being so pessimistic about oneself that one�s willing to suspend disbelief concerning ideas that one doesn�t ordinarily believe in just to believe in the worst explanation available for one�s failed attempts at finding love.

If it is because of a thing called Fate which may or may not exist (for the record, she chooses to believe it exists but only in this context), it means that it�s not her, that there�s nothing wrong with her, that it�s just her bad bloody luck to be born with such a shitty blueprint.

After going through her own perennial human dramedy, she desperately needs to believe that.

You can�t measure the worth of your heart by the number of pick-up lines you receive or the amount of clich�d sickly-sweet phrases that have been uttered to you; more importantly, your self-worth can never be determined by faceless guys that come and go, who graze the surface of your heart without wanting to pierce through it and dive in. Diving in is the only thing that can measure up to your worth; that�s all you have to know.

1.20 a.m.

**

I'm going through my folders and I came across this. It's date and time stamped (as most of my writings are), so I'm not going to write the usual 'I wrote this last year' explanation.

What I will say, however, is that it's almost a year since I wrote that and the sentiment still sticks. Nothing much has changed, except maybe I've become even more cynical, a possibility I didn't quite consider this time last year. Am I progressing or regressing? I don't feel the need for love anymore, let alone the impetus to find it, much less the desire to figure it out, determine what it means, exactly.

It's just one of those things that don't matter. How can it matter so much, when it's uncertain, when it's never going to be etched in stone, when it causes so much pain and anguish when the whole thing falls apart? I was that girl once, pathetically crying and in pain, just because some guy decided I wasn't worth fighting for.

I'm never going to be that girl again. I haven't been that girl ever since, and ever since then, I've held that curious organ called my heart so very close to me, locked up with the key thrown away.

What I really want? Peace with a side of quiet (Veronica Mars). That's all.

before sunrise // before sunset

Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010