I’ve had a rather shallow opinion about love. To me, such things as soul mates have never been an existing possibility, because a thought of two people connecting on the advertised level seemed a fairy tail you only read in books. And precisely because of these paper treasures, I used to live with an unreal definition of love and too high expectations, for almost my entire life, not being able to find happiness in any of my past relationships.
There was a time when I was convinced that I wasn’t capable of loving, because I haven’t felt the way book characters do. But as I grew up, I’ve learnt that love isn’t about the perpetual butterflies in your stomach or exaggerated feelings. It isn’t about the appearance or mutual interests. Then what is it about, you may ask?
Trying to learn to love.
It’s easy to fall for a perfection, but the real love is about cherishing the anger, shattered hearts and broken minds; seeing what’s beneath the lovely painting and picturing where it all came from. Understanding and patience towards the ugly behavior. And forgiveness, as we are just as guilty as the other person. One of the hardest tasks is admitting your own fault, but when you finally succeed, you can let go of toxic self-righteousness and be on a right path to forgiveness.
You see, I lived with a false belief that romantic love was the eternal kind of love. But I’ve learnt that I’m only at a very beginning to finding out what it means to me.