Wednesday, July 21, 2004
A lot of us have undergone, and lots will still undergo, the agony in deciding whether or not to declare our undying affection to someone. But most of us just endure the torture of being silent and suppressing the truth. Why the choice?
Telling the truth is not as virtuous as most religions would have wanted us to believe, if by virtuous we mean to say it is naturally and inherently good that is . Truth hurts. Reality bites. Haven't we heard enough? I guess we haven't, and we seem to have this addiction of dwelling in pain. How have we become so masochistic? Perhaps it is when religion implicitly taught us to equate virtue with pain and vice with pleasure.
When we love, romantically speaking, we rarely choose to declare our love because we know doing so would make us vulnerable. It is wrong to open ourselves out to someone who could take our emotions away, just to wrestle with them only to later on throw them away. We'd rather choose to suffer in silence. Most of the time, this option is extremely melancholy, worse than the fear of rejection or deliberate deception, and it seems only natural that a person would prefer this option. Why? because it's personal, because self-inflicted pain is more acceptable than one that is externally inflicted. Why? because that's how we embrace life. Besides, misery should not seek company; misery should be taken care of without it.
I find the act of confessing our undying love similar to suicide, and I know a lot of people will agree with me on this. This is not because our honesty would necessarily cost us our dear lives, but more because of the idea of the act being irreversible. In suicide, if we succeed, we can't say, "whoops, I didn't mean to cut my wrist and loose a huge amount of blood", or cry "I'm sorry, I didn't know jumping off the 40th floor would crash my skull and make my brain splatter on the ground," or wail "Whoa, so walking in front of a very fast-moving vehicle would be fatal, I have to tell the others, I have to live." We can't shout apologies, and say sorry can we come back to life now? When we kill ourselves, we die. Confessing our love would be quite similar, although not as gory as it sounds.
And in my case, there is that awful stage where I almost hope for the plausibility of him knowing how I feel about him, that maybe I don't have to confess and that I only have to affirm whatever assumption he has of me. That's when I hate him the most. I have the audacity to hope that he might discover it for himself. But whenever I think I am giving him the liberty to assume, it seems his density level goes beyond any scientific formula could ever compute.
I have to ask, why then should I let him in? Why should I share this suffering, this burden? Why should I utter the words "I love you", when this would mean I will end up joining those herds of romantic crooks who have misused and abused the phrase, they've trivialized it so much it no longer bears the meaning of pure and genuine affection. I'm too good for that, I won't give in. Between suffering in silence and losing my life in honesty, I would choose the safer one, I would rather keep my mouth sealed.
But what difference does it make, I still suffer, I still writhe in despair. In the end, I want something to hold on to. I want to be proven wrong, tell me to choose the other option.
the origin.6:36 AM
Nina Louise
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