It’s your average Tuesday night in and Amelia and I are yelling at each other in caps lock over Facebook messenger about who is more illogical on the topic of love. It’s a competition neither of us really wants to be victorious in and yet we are giving great advances to our arguments in the examples we put forth. Amelia has convinced herself that she wants to travel back to Berlin for Berghain and not for Matt, the boy that broke her heart two years ago when he left Melbourne and never came home. I, on the other hand, am faced with my timeless dilemma, a hamartia of sorts, of not being able to speak my feelings to the person I have feelings for. My tactic is typically to try so hard not to come across as too keen that I eventually come across as not keen at all. I am 21 and yet I see startling similarities between my current self and my 13 year old self. I am aware I am pathetic, but Amelia’s trying to convince herself to stopover in Berlin before returning home to visit a nightclub, so we know who really is the best of the worst here.
“You know what our problem is,” I say. “We are too independent and we don’t know how to deal with men because we’ve been so busy doing other things with our lives and we’ve never felt the need to learn how to.” A classic feminist comment to detract from the reality of my abundant self-doubt. ”We also are all about the chase and the comfort of impossibility,” replied a more reasoned Amelia. We list reasons we ‘suck at love’ for the next 35 minutes until my dog decides to piss on the rug and the conversation halts.
I return to my laptop later that evening, high on love-sick thoughts and unashamed to be indulging in them. I’ll wire in my headphones and close my eyes as I listen to Joni Mitchell’s ‘A Case of You’. Perhaps I should have focussed particularly on the lines “be prepared to bleed”, but a little ukulele can easily disguise ones mind.
Perhaps we don’t ’suck at love’ at all. Perhaps instead we belong to a class of women (and surely some men) that are yet to forget about the love we were brought up to believe in.
A love of soul-mates, sparks and hearts colliding. A love where Eve is created from Adam’s missing rib to be his perfect partner. A love written at the start of time itself. Call me hopeless, ignorant and naive - but in a world of unknown’s, why is it wrong to cling to the hope of something greater? Something that means more than just settling to avoid loneliness. Or anecdotes from friends that “nothing lasts forever.” Something that excites us, confuses us and perhaps even drives us insane - but at least it makes us feel alive.
When we engage rationally, we both know Amelia should not go to Berlin. She has been hurt before, and hurt well, and returning to the very city that caused this is dangerous. For Amelia, to love him was to jump off a wharf into a river without first checking the water depth. For the risk was high and advised against. He was a predicted avalanche or landslide, cyclone or tsunami. But even as the siren sounded, the risk of loving him was still worth the chance of him loving her back.
It’s tragic and cruel, but also beautiful. Just as life is tragic and cruel, and beautiful.
It’s your average Tuesday night in and I’m reading Rupi Kaur’s poetry whilst inhaling a carton of Over the Moo by myself. Maybe I’ll hear from you today - maybe I won’t. I still believe in love. Even if it doesn’t believe in me back (yet).