There are those inexplicable moments of vulnerability in our twenties which invade our invincible façade and make us start questioning if there was something inherently wrong with us which prevented us from finding love.
Yes, I’ve been through that.
“Being single is a choice. I refuse to compromise. I’m living the life that I want to live and making myself the best that I can be. I just have not met the right person.”
I’ve heard all that. Not the least from my inner self to my vulnerable self in the middle of the night. It can all be true. But there are moments when the truth is not the answer to the yearning in your heart.
And then I started, “Project Getting Attached”. It’s a posthumous name to the Project by the way. I wouldn’t be so cheesy. Or that frank with myself then. It seemed to me then that the endeavour smacks of desperation. Continue reading “On Seeking Love”
The Paris that I knew before I stepped foot on it was a place I associated with the Enlightenment, with Romance, with Beauty, and with the legacy of endless stories told and filmed. I didn’t know what to expect, but the anticipation was real.
More than the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, or the Notre Dame, the one place that I really wanted to see was the River Seine. It was the place of dreams, the place where Celine and Jesse had the chance to continue the conversation they left behind nine years ago in Vienna. It was the 塞纳河 of many a love songs.
Jesse: Oh, God, why didn’t we exchange phone numbers and stuff? Why didn’t we do that?
Celine: Because we were young and stupid.
Jesse: Do you think we still are?
Celine: I guess when you’re young, you just believe there’ll be many people with whom you’ll connect with. Later in life, you realize it only happens a few times.
Jesse: And you can screw it up, you know, misconnect.
I often feel that the tales that touch you the most are those with a hint of regret. The younger me loved “Before Sunrise” for its beauty, for its whimsical indulgence of two young adults’ flight of fancy and the promise and anticipation in the world we are stepping out to explore. The older me broke my heart over the realism of “Before Sunset” and the “what-it-could-have-been” as we look back at the detours we took in our lives and the people we missed.
And because of that, a desire for a stroll along River Seine brought me all the way to Paris.
It was just a whiff as I stood beside him. My heat skipped a beat and the tiniest pause in my words betrayed my surprise. I held my breath for that moment that went on for ever so long. My glance flickered up from the document in my hands into his eyes.
Very surreptitiously, I released my breath in an attempt to cover my misstep. I completed my sentence and nodded in response to his question. At the same time, involuntarily and in an indulgence of my greed for more, I replenished my emptied lungs with a long, deep and deliberately measured breath.
I was always arbitrary in my feelings towards Yangon. I felt at the back of my head that I should love Yangon, and couldn’t help feeling slightly guilty that I didn’t know if I did.
I knew I loved Kyangin, where I was born. I didn’t recall much of Mandalay, where I had spent some of my youth. I didn’t dislike Yangon, but I didn’t feel much for it any other way either. For a place where I spent most of my time before I left Myanmar, and a place so romanticised by tourists and foreigners alike, I didn’t have the emphatic “these-are-my-roots” sentiments.
The Yangon that I came back to didn’t hold the first-time wonders that it did to many foreigners who came in, eager to see the place where time stood still, locked away from the rest of the word.