I believe in the deepest kind of romantic love. Not even the Hollywood rom-com version satisfies me—no, myself, I have to go to the epic love story of Lizzy Bennet and Mr. Darcy. It’s a strange person that finds strictly buttoned-up and very proper late 18th century courting so hopelessly romantic and enviable. But it’s also a strange person that accidentally rips a hole in her soft pink heart-shaped pillow—yes, I own and cuddle up with a soft, pink, heart-shaped pillow—and then, instead of stitching it up, leaves it there as a tragic reminder to herself that her own heart is forever destined to be a little ripped-open, a little damaged, a little worn-down.
Can you say overdramatic? I mean, come on, a bug might crawl in there and jump out onto my face in the middle of the night. But that’s what you get for being a hopeless romantic: eternal dissatisfaction and the constant threat of being assaulted, physically or emotionally, by any matter of creatures.
I realize I’m too young and too idealistic. I haven’t experienced nearly enough of the many travails of love, and my hopes are set too high, aided and abetted by many a Jane Austen and Meg Cabot novel. But what happened to romantic love? Does it exist? Does it only happen to a certain lucky few? Or is it, as according to Don Draper of Mad Men, something made up to sell nylons?
I like to believe it’s real. It’s destiny. It’s out there, somewhere. As a small speck on the vast scope, one can only hope that perchance, they might stumble upon true love and happiness. I mean, in the end, it’s a pointless life we’re all living—why not spend it trying to find this elusive fantasy? What else is there to do?
So I’ll continue reading my happily-ever-after chick-lit. I’ll cry at the end of seeing The Notebook for the 600th time. And I’ll still be peeking behind corners for this elusive great love, because in the end, all we can do is hope.