Hi everyone I'm Ysabel Flores, and this is my first article and in this article let's talk about what if we've never found true love?
Let's get started!
We have been waiting from the dawn of adulthood. We intuitively grasped love long before it was ever a realistic possibility.
We realized that, without fear of judgment or censure, it was tied up with a feeling of being truly heard and finally free to utter anything. Love was a two-person conspiracy, the real essence of being alive, against someone else too stupid or leading to get 'it'.
To the point that you could do something for them, including sticking a finger into their mouth and telling them to bite it tight, it has to do with fancying someone absolutely and the amazingness that they could fancy you back.
From the beginning, we imagined that love might be the best part of life, and we were not wrong. We place ourselves in unusual circumstances in the name of passion.
We went out even earlier than we'd planned to go. We bought fancy clothes, we thought about our hair and we were worried about our spots, we drank intensely colored drinks, we ended up in the extraterrestrial parts of the city for a few hours, in the bedrooms of people we knew, it wasn't right, but that seemed to be an advance on the cause, at least in some way.
We embraced dates because we didn't want to ossify or grow so peculiar with people we knew were troublesome. In reality, it was almost always wrong, it wasn't always right, but we held our heads up and told ourselves that it would finally be OK, as they kindly promised us it was going to be.
Yet time passed; it continued for decades. In some very confusing circumstances that seemed like love from the outside but were anything but, we got enmeshed. We spent way too long finding our identity and extricating ourselves.
And at a certain moment, we began to understand something that we're still dealing with in fear, perhaps late at night, because stuff like that isn't easy to look at in the daylight: the possibility that love isn't going to ever come right for us, after all, despite our attempts and observations.
We will die without ever understanding the love that we long for.
The explanations for this are different and completely banal in their respects. Because our history is too complicated; because our loss of faith is too deep; because we are too ugly; because we are too unconfident; because we do not find the right people; because our luck is too small; because optimism is too dangerous.
We can't do this stuff, even though we work harder than we try to do something else. For us, it won't work out.
An objectively very harmless disappointment might be the ambassador for this somber grand truth: maybe one more date that did not go as it should go in the end, after a rather hopeful stage around dessert, or one more person that did not call back.
They, the god of romantic suicide, couldn't have known what they were doing to us, and they surely didn't mean it (unfortunately, we can't hate them for a moment), so they introduced us with their lack of desire into a notion that now threatens to blow our recovery.
The scenes aren't pretty behind closed doors. To protect a moralistic society from scenes that deserve to be lost, thank god for anonymity.
Tears, bitter denunciations of all and all, self-pitying and vengeful rants: this is so hard, I can't bear it anymore, everything is unjust beyond compare. There will be hours of the most unedifying despair.
We break down the crash doors of ordinary optimism in the darkness. We will do away with ourselves. They will lament us, and now they will miss us. But, of course, we won't do anything stupid.
It's just that the mind is doing its usual job, responding yet another yawning distance between the way we expect things to be and the awful way they are.
We're calming down. After all, we are animals who know how to die. We believe we don't know how-to, but whatever the fierce anger, we invariably do. We will pretty much digest every verdict.
We reassure ourselves that we will never be able to talk or lose our intestines, but then the doctors tell us what to do and we put up with a feeding tube and a bag and just communicate with a shaking eyelid.
It's safer than the option at all times. And, of course, we have a cataclysmic loss of love to contend with. In its sober bleakness, Morning arrives, chilly and serious and somehow reassuring. We're going to prepare the bed, clear the despair out, and get on.
A few consolations are there. First and foremost, the ruined, incensed defiance, the fucking of you in the world, and all those who peddle nostalgic nonsense that doesn't suit our reality.
A kind of artwork, the kind created by unflinching brilliant realists who went through as much loneliness as we have, who knew our sorrow ahead of time, grief-stricken masters like Baudelaire and Leopardi, Pessoa and Pascal, who in strong transcendental words can articulate our tiny domestic sorrow and induce us to the most dignified kind of remorse.
They were there too, reminding us 'I do,' in the most abstract, accomplished ways. And we have friendship, not the kind that erases isolation, but that makes it easier for us to connect. We're just of a party of the dying in a hospice conversation circle that won't be willing to eradicate the end but realize they're not alone in it at least. We can't support each other explicitly.
We also get better at interpreting statistics: for a deprived group of us, this is common. We belong to a significant opposition group in the Human Suffering Parliament.
Our biggest challenge would have been lovelessness, sorrow that lasted from childhood to the end, a question that was supposed to go away and never did. It can be said on our secret gravestone: marriage did not turn out for them, and how they longed for it: an epitaph to scare children and comfort our sentimental heirs.
What was supposed to be a period became the truest thing about us: that we were looking for love-and that it never came, a fact all the more redeeming to be eventually shared with a remarkable calm unflinching sincerity.
Hi, I appreciate your effort to read my article I want to say thank you so much!
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