So it has been about three months since I wrote. I ashamedly admit that this is not what I meant when I told myself to be persistently regular. These vacations, I suspect, I felt too lazy to brainstorm and write because honestly, I was out of topics. Today I come back to the same old topic that some of you might think has gotten rotten. Romance!
You might take me to be a hopeless romantic but I have a wild whacky streak. I will be an amazing character in an amazing book, mind you! Like people claim to dislike One Direction and call it lame, and then secretly listen to its songs and stalk the singers every moment, I read romantic novels like crazy although I firmly believe that one should take up books by Plato, Aristotle, Krishnamurthy because they enlighten you about the real world and how it works. Being the hypocrite that I am, I end up with romantic novels, be it by Jane Austen, Margaret Mitchell, Charlotte Bronte…or modern writers like Jessica Park, Sophie Kinsella, or Emma Chase. I realize that I take up these books just like an addict eats opiates. I know I mustn’t read these books, that my conscience would hurt, but I still read them, because I cannot stop. Smokers talk about a soothing feeling they get when they inhale bouts of smoke into their lungs. That is how relieved I feel when I see two people, meant for each other, coming together to live happily forever after. Like when Rhett Butler confesses his love for Scarlett O Hara, and when he is overjoyed to hear that Scarlett loves him too (although it was a farce on her side), when he buys her a very vulgar ring just because she wants one, or when he stays with her even though she marries someone else and accompanies her everywhere because it is not safe for her to go around alone; I feel my heart trotting in a beautiful land where every fantasy of mine comes true. There are innumerable moments when I find myself grinning like a simpleton when something funny happens in the book and then I look up to see my parents looking at me as if they question my sanity.
But whenever I read a book, I reach a stage of ecstasy because i imagine that I might have the same prospects as these heroines do in the books. Romantic novels make you throb with desire- not with lust, but desire for intimacy that two people share, the level of comfort that they can never achieve with anyone else, an invisible string that connects the two of them and makes them inseparable. It is not something that fades away in a matter of months; those characters are not people who would cheat on their partners just because it has been too long since they shared their bed with someone. A romantic novel makes you believe that he is your Yin and you are his Yang, complimenting each other and fitting perfectly even if they have opposite traits, completing each other to make a small universe in this vast one. This gives me a sense of comfort because I know I shall have someone who shall love me for me and not try to change me, but mold with me.