A Hopeless Romantic Who Doesn't Believe in Love

The title of this post explains it all to me, but I am very aware it is an oxymoron which could make one wonder what the hay I'm talking about: "a hopeless romantic who doesn't believe in love" and it's been my way of thinking from whatever age I first considered the strange concept of "love".

I shall explain:

I have always been a sucker for romantic films, books and songs; I adore fairy-tale, Disney relationships and fall for every charming fictional character I've ever had the joy of delving into their worlds: Dave-the-Laugh, Wes, Logan, Kian, Peeta, Gale, Romeo, and trust me the list goes on. My tummy is inhabited with butterflies whenever I read the most beautifully-crafted words of Nicholas Sparks, producing delicate feelings in which a character feels for another. There are songs that send me to another world completely. A world where "the grass is green" and happiness is not - as One Tree Hill phrases - a "destination"; where evil does not exist and would not ever be inflicted on another: the perfect world.

But - (and I apologise to a previous English teacher who would be having a right old tizz if she were to witness me using "but" at the beginning of a sentence) and the only way I can think of putting it is - I am a cynic. A boy cannot, in my eyes, produce the most thoughtful gesture without influence and a girl sees faults that should not exist. "Love" lasts only as long as the mind wishes to endure, and the small things vanish when the heart refuses to play any more. The concept of "love", to me is simply a commercial-scam to keep the economy existing, to keep some kind of happiness on the surface, to keep people disillusioned when times are darker than those with power wish to portray.

"Love" can neither be pinpointed by those whose voice is louder, nor can it be explained by a blogger who can - all in the same day - cry at the heart-wrenching film Titanic and cringe at her best friend for claiming to be in the full-swing process of the motion of, yes, "love".

If this were an essay, I'd conclude with facts and figures supporting an assured view without contradictions. Yet, I can't. Wherever I see true heart being spoken in words, I feel my eyes sting with excited tears but I also see an inevitable, eventual disease, and where I see roses produced by the modern-day-Romeo, I both "aw" outwardly and see a woman who intends to make this man happy until the next season's Gucci arrives.

Sunshine & Sandcastles,

The Girl in the Moonlight.

(Plot twist: all of the above does not mean that I do not see that love does exist...)