These romantic deliberations through popular images that I have delved in make me feel how reality and imageries, fantasy and abstruse actuality are constantly locking horns, dissenting against one another. Like, consider the moribund (sorry) matter of love. Love, is shown in such amazing ( *coughs* ) ways in movies that you tend to expect so much more from life than it has to offer. Maybe life has to offer more than what they show in movies, but then as Haruki Murakami said, "What you seek won't come in the form you expect." Or something like that.
Those scenes they show, when a man looks at a woman, entirely through chance and conspiracies of the universe, helping an old woman cross the road. At the same time, she looks pretty, she looks her best, her hair is falling on her face and she is doing a benevolent job with such grace. And thus he falls in love with her.
When a man accidentally looks at a girl who is asserting her authority, her rights somewhere and there sparks a glow in his heart, that he has found a girl who knows herself, and is so confident about herself to assert herself in public, and falls in love with her.
Or when they show a girl talking so nicely to someone subservient in the social hierarchy. Or, they show a girl who is very bubbly, cheerful, kind, amazing all at the same time. They show her as innocent, or very lively, or with composure and malleability, or amazing control on temper. Perfect. Just, perfect.
But, who IS this perfect? I may not help an old lady because I have to rush somewhere, or if I am helping someone, I may look like a shredded 10 rupee note and not a thousand bucks, I might be caught shouting at an auto wallah for deceiving me, and not asserting any rightful ideal. What is this all about?
They say that the matter of chance is the catch here- you do something not for someone's attention but it catches attention afterall, and there you have it- L.O.V.E. But what these constant reiterations of such serendipitous happenings have done to people is that they are so conscious of every act of uniqueness they impart, and feel that this uniqueness might be acknowledged, might be the cause of someone liking them.
I may seem a bit obtuse, but I am being truthful about what has happened to me due to these imageries- I have turned into a hopeful romantic. I tend to create characteristics in me now, just in case someone sees it and appreciates me as a human being, mostly romantically, but in all other ways too. My hopeful romantic approach to life has robbed the individual, real person in me. Or maybe, now I can't help but fight in my head about why I did something- did I do it for some kind of attention, or did I do it because I wanted to.
It gets creepier when you do something and there is NO one you want to attract. Still, calling my motives entirely altruistic seems wrong- maybe I am doing it, because I want to make myself believe, that I am capable of doing nice things. But did I really want to do it? I don't know.
Or just take the matter of serendipity- something you encounter with you asking for it, and it is beautiful. A happy coincidence. A person like me, will attach all notions of love to it and think this might be something, because hey, serendipity might mean something. But then what if, it doesn't mean anything at all?
Thus, that is the problem with the conventional notion of love- the matter of chance and serendipity is so complex that the easiness with which it is portrayed is harrowing to say the least. Love is so complex a matter in itself, that its delineations cannot be simple, at all. I might fall in love with the act of a person, but the person himself? Isn't it too far-fetched? Too stretched? When is the time you know you love a person? When is that defining moment? Some say there can be no definitive moment, some give a vague and utterly romantic and corny "you just know". I mean what does that even mean? No one can just know, and even something indefinite has a starting point.
Next time you see a friend of yours and a boy accidentally pushed against each other and their books fall down, and they pick it up, you are surely to see that they pick it up and just go.
But what if they don't?
A hopeful romantic, can never find solace.