I was almost coughing my lungs out when he said he loved me, right in the middle of his kitchen, a few days before my flight. That’s something that probably doesn’t happen often after a certain age, I would say, but it was something I knew he would end up doing.
From the very beginning I told him that we could never be more than friends. He said he knew that, and that he understood my current situation: lost, ill, and burned out. However, he decided to go for it anyway, and I couldn’t tell him to control his feelings, because when you control your feelings, then you stop living as a functional human being.
I know one day there will be a very happy woman on earth because of him. I honestly feel a bit “meh” that I’m not her, but I can’t force my heart to feel something it doesn’t. At some point, I thought there was something wrong with me – maybe my mind was tricking me, maybe I was running away from love. Was I letting my idealist way win? Should I stop looking for that perfect imperfect person? Should I accept I will never feel contentment in a relationship and thus just settle down with any good, loving man?
Exactly, the carousel of thoughts began spinning. I had many doubts regarding whether I would be able to be in a relationship again, so I could well be running away in order not to deal with it. On another hand, I never felt the “click” I know I need to feel; he would make me feel good, like a goddess, but my heart kept saying he was not the one.
This situation was familiar. It was not the first nor the second time it was happening and I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed with those men who said to love me but whom I didn’t love back. And why didn’t I love them back? Again, my idealist soul plays its part: although they treated me like a princess, they never addressed or embraced the other two sides of me – the warrior and the child.
On top of that, they were men seeking for a more traditional relationship. The kind of relationship in which a man is always the strongest and the woman the eternal princess of their kingdom. Those women are delicate, they are roses without thorns. Their perfume is light and their petals are perfect. I’m a wild rose, I’m a warrior princess. And princesses who happen to be warriors and childish at the same time crave adventures. They need to feel free to go into the wild and practise with their bow and arrow. They can’t be sitting and waiting for their warrior to come home every-single-day. Sometimes they want to have someone waiting for them instead.
I know this might sound crazy. Maybe you will even say that love can eventually grow over time from my part. I agree with that. Love can certainly grow… but there’s a difference between a love that grows from comfort and a love that grows from wonder. The love that is built on comfort will only satisfy your most superficial needs. It was nice to play house with G., but I wouldn’t be happy, because I’m a wonderer and the love that emerges from wonder is a love that will make your eyes sparkle and your heart jump, even after decades complaining about different ways of folding socks, shirts, or undone dishes.
As dear Jason from Metaphysical Reflections commented here on the blog the other day, I too crave the bliss of romance, and not any kind of romance. I crave the same kind of romance that Florbela, a Portuguese poet from the 20th century, also craved. A romance in which being “too much” is seen as an asset and not an invitation to a mental asylum.
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