Introvert Romantic

Genuine bonds between people are hard to come by.  Sometimes it seems like relationships and friendships are based on the most superficial characteristics of the persons involved.  It’s easy to get along well with attractive, gregarious people and far more socially awkward to associate oneself with someone not so extroverted.  But does this really mean that either person would make a better friend/companion?

And an even better question: how does one even define a friend?  It seems that a friend to many is just source of attention, a form of entertainment, and perhaps a means of climbing a social ladder.  This is not to say that we consciously make these decisions when “picking” friends, as human beings we are simply inclined to like people who display such characteristics.

I am personally guilty of this, and I believe most are.  It’s a hard fact to accept but there is an inherent beauty in acknowledging the flaws of our social mind and attempting to consciously fix them.  We are not born perfect - just because something makes us human doesn’t mean it has to control us.

I always find it interesting when people question others’ romantic interests.  ”What do you see in him?”.  ”I can’t believe you’d be with her…”  

 If there’s any lesson to be learned in the art of romance, it is that love is impractical.  To question love from a rational perspective is akin to questioning the existence of God - it’s inexplicable and bewildering, but the sentiment is there.  Love is rarely the consequence of a laundry list of impressions that two people make on each other - it is far less cut and clean in it’s development.  Physical attraction, lust, is of course a factor of varying significance from person to person.  But people are not just statues to be admired in a gawking fashion.  People change, they go through moments of grief, periods of sadness, outbursts of anger, pangs of jealousy and can quite frankly be complete assholes.  

And yet, people are likeable, loveable even.  But not by all - not all can see beyond these imperfections, not all care enough to peer beneath the flames.

It was a Friday night, and I was stuck in my dorm room, doing homework which I would usually have put off to Sunday.  There were parties, of course, but it just didn’t feel like a night to drink away reality.  Out of boredom, I glanced over at the square panes of glass which afforded me my only immediate awareness of the outside world, and saw her staring quizzically at the branches of a snow-laden tree.  Her cheeks were flushed crimson in the chilling cold of the Boston winter, and long, ruby locks fell at her shoulders.  I can’t quite recall if it was the child-like wonder in her eyes or her genuine difference to the stares of passer-by, but something led me to open the window and ask her what she was doing.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to do homework that night.

They ruin lives.