I started blogging on the tail end of the longest relationship with a woman I’ve ever been in. At the time, I was thirsting for self-expression and, in light of the struggle that I had been dealing with, appropriately titled my site “the last great romantic.” Besides having a nice ring to it and not-so-subtly hinting at my appreciation of Jack Vettriano, it also represented an ideal that I held very near and dear to my heart.
Perhaps out of naivete, I retained hope—however mangled and shredded at times—of finding someone that would prove my point and justify the title of my blog: true love, in all of its absurd, fanciful iterations within literature, music, and the arts, really did have some sort of practical version. And while it was never as perfect as was portrayed in those beautiful fictions, it nonetheless existed in some instantiation that, while flawed, was actually observable…noticeable. The kind of love that turned heads and made people jealous—jealous not of one person or the other, but the bond itself and the intense emotion that existed between some two souls.
It has been roughly six months since I became single after enduring what was easily the most difficult breakup I’ve been through. Between then and now, I’ve had a lot of time to think. Perhaps too much. Perhaps way too much. I changed the name of my blog in some (futile) attempt to dig myself out of a mindset that had simply been dragging me down. The idea of “true” love—a phrase that still drives me nuts with its connotations, but has to be sufficient out of a simple linguistic shortcoming in the English language—the concept itself simply cannot exist in the world of youthful singlehood, in my experience. In short, these cultural environs are not simply tough times to be a romantic, but are a veritable minefield for people that are emotionally available, in touch with themselves, and actively seeking someone with similar qualities and approaches to life.
The essence of this mindset seems to be that it is simply unacceptable to really show yourself to someone. Being emotionally genuine with another is simply setting oneself up for heartache. We are the generation of a protected nakedness, where we will happily and readily lock lips with strangers and take our clothes off with them once we know their name. When it comes to articulating emotions, acknowledging the bond that inevitably emerges from such associations, though, we take a gamble where the odds are profoundly stacked against us. If I go out tomorrow night and have poetry-inspiring, beautiful sex with a woman and follow it with a soulful conversation, I am to remain quiet even if my partner stirs something far deeper in me than lust. I run the risk of sounding “too serious,” even if my sentiments are genuine and imply no commitment whatsoever.
And try as I might, I can’t seem to function here…in fact, I am aggravatingly dysfunctional. It’s not that I’m looking and insisting on a quote-relationship-unquote, merely looking for someone that is comfortable not playing mindgames and being upfront about how they feel. In spite of the assurances of some of my acquaintances that I will one day find someone that appreciates me for what I am, it’s not easy to retain even a shred of hope here. I’m quickly turning into a misanthrope. I no longer have faith. I’m not doing so hot. The last great romantic is taking his last gasps and, honestly, I’m looking forward to the day when he no longer sits on my shoulder and injects poetic hope into me.
To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub…
