“One should always be drunk. That’s all that matters…But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose. But get drunk.” – Charles Baudelaire
3 glasses of wine into our happy hour night, and I was gesturing quite freely with my male companion. Radical ideas are on the table. Friendly reminder is given; honey, I’m gay.
And we’re back on track in the meandering of life talks.
Like any good friend, we recap on my break up. I used to be embarrassed that I had flown overseas to meet somebody. With two cats in tow, it really feels like I’m meeting the epitome of desperate cat lady.
With this precedent, it almost doesn’t need explaining how I ended up in the corner of my closet floor crying unstoppably for 2 hours. Yet I woke up today and saw this as the best thing that could happen.
People battle ever so precariously the duality between love and hate. Sometimes when we are so enraged and tormented by what we desire most, it can feel like this archaic idea of [insert:love] has abandoned us. For a road blocked writer, the spell of language can appear to curse us instead with these unfinished sentences and untitled thoughts. With love, it can be a humiliating process.
I thought this when I said, “I know I’m only 20, and I’ll meet plenty of people, but I liked being in a relationship. I just did.”
My friend shrugged, having lived his 20’s in the throes of hedonism. He shrugged and looked at me as if he was just waiting for me to prove it.
He told me anecdotes between how his 70yr old father is dating a 25 yr old; how sexism and prejudice works for people to revolt against a leader that would date an older women but nobody bats an eye for the opposite; how hard it is to even make platonic friends because people don’t want to step out there and really know you. Yet we love all the same. For those that look past themselves and their unequaled embarrassment for their anger/tears, we dream of harmony and partnership despite ourselves. Maybe there’s not enough of us who admit that aloud because I certainly don’t hear it enough.
It’s not as though we are unaffected. It is quite possible, and at times very real, that I may be just in love with the idea of love. Like any form of endearment, I could easily lose myself. This time I did plunge in. I was sincere and it hurts.
In my drunken state, as the tears started on the bus ride home, I gripped my cellphone to keep the world from tilting. Angrily, defiantly texting my girlfriend who’s been having just as hard of a time being a spokesperson for love; struggling to find herself as a new mom and wife. I desperately wrote to her as I’d want from a true artist : a delivery of their own unassailable truth from their uttermost raw being. Not even called a faith in love, because we lose hope in our individual art too and we will need someone else’s bold defiance. And in their times of needs, we somehow find it in ourselves to step up and find that brave part of ourselves to share.
We plod on in making connections and hopefully laugh at ourselves for our sadness when we’ve stood back up from our closet floors.
It is a little past half my day and my eyes have finally reset themselves from being swollen. I swept my hair back and laughed with the bartender this morning, joking about being drunk last night.
Feel attractive again. That’s how love works. We wouldn’t be able to live with ourselves otherwise.
“Accept what life offers you and try to drink from every cup. All wines should be tasted; some should only be sipped, but with others, drink the whole bottle.” – Pualo Coelho