It’s been raining for the last four days. Not a steady drizzle mind you, it’s the kind of torrential rain that South-East Asia is famous for. It’s the kind of rain that makes you curl around a hot cup of masala tea and watch the wordsmith in you stretch and turn and twist in ways that reality hardly ever allows anymore. And as someone who has been raised on a steady diet of contemporary writers pouring their romanticism along with the rain, I am in the mood to talk about love, life and myself.
For a while love for me was hoping for that butterfly in the stomach feeling. Only, I never actually got that feeling… I just kept looking for it. Quite literally. I don’t get the ‘universal’ heart palpitations or shortness of breath that all those books and movies kept telling me growing up. I have never loved someone with the unbridled passion that overrules common sense and threatens to pull a stealthy regime change in your brain. I also don’t buy into the “Mr/Miss Right” idea as well, or the notion that you are incomplete before meeting your other half. I don’t know if it was because of this black sheep scenario in the flock that I was convinced for a long time of being incapable of loving another human being. To be honest, I still don’t know whether I am capable of romantically loving another person or not. Though to be fair, I have only just recently started loving myself.
Oddly enough even with my high school acquaintance circle getting married left and right and/or getting into relationships, I am okay with being single. It could also be because I am a ghost on Facebook and that’s a relief. (Yes, my dislike for Facebook is showing. Hush now!)
I am okay with being single. I am twenty-two years old, on my way to getting a degree while working with the first love of my life, genetics. Well, epigenetics to be exact. I am learning new things about myself, rediscovering old passions and re-wiring how I think as a human being. I am also looking forward to learning how to balance myself on roller blades this year, trying not to kill an indoor plant and pitching a proposal for a science communication podcast to MONASH Radio. Add to that laundry list dealing with my clinical depression one day at a time and devouring books albeit not at the rate I would prefer. Then again, you can’t win them all.
So, yeah I am, against all odds, not that troubled over being single at the moment. Isn’t that a pleasant surprise?
And what rambling on love and monsoon is ever complete without a poem? Here are a few lines from one my favourites, When Love Arrives by Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye:
Maybe love isn’t ready for you
Maybe you are not ready for love.
Maybe love stays.
Maybe love can’t.
Maybe love shouldn’t.
Love arrives exactly when love is supposed to.
And love leaves exactly when love must.