Romancing alone

It is hard to be a romantic. Or, rather, it is hard to stay a romantic. In most relationships, both intimate and platonic, I have been the one to do ‘the little things’: hide notes under pillows, bestow spontaneous bunches of flowers, abandon schedules in favour of long languorous walks, quality conversations and a good bottle of red. In short, I like for experiences to be long, slow and memorable.

That my gestures are seldom returned has never mattered to me before. One Valentine’s Day, I drew a giant pink chalk heart, containing my/my boyfriend’s initials, onto the bridge that he walks across every day on his way to work. Actually, I started out with chalk, but this didn’t work very well so I finished off the job with bright-red lipstick. Even though the pigment has washed off, on rainy days the oil stain still casts a faint silhouette like the ghost of our love.

I guess acting this way has always come naturally to me, because it is exactly like my mother. Her motto has always been that the best things in life are not things. Through her attitude, she has maintained my faith in the world. Just because you’re broke, it doesn’t mean that you can’t laugh; just because your voice is off key, it doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t sing. She refuses to be bound by budgets and discipline and fear and trivialities. And she is one of the most well-adjusted, loving people I know.

But lately, I am starting to lose faith. When all you do is give and call and express and feel, yet it seems like so many people around you are concerned with being productive and efficient and disconnected and cold, then YOU start to ‘give’. Romance needs to be nourished by love, the two need to coexistent if they are to be indissoluble.