Latest Realization of a Hopeless Romantic

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Few months back, I was one of those who are deeply interested in love stories with happy endings. I always found myself reading books with stories that circulate around love as a central theme, and have certain tragic points (mostly, death) that make the climaxes more thrilling as they reach their denouement and happy endings.

Who doesn’t like love? It’s almost inseparable in our lives. We love our family, and friends; our careers and our dreams. We love our money, and our fame; our beliefs, and our convictions. We stand for them no matter what it takes because they are the ones that make us happy.

Like many others, I find it interesting to learn about other people’s love lives. In so many cases, I have listened to a friend confessing a love problem, and a friend rejoicing about the blissfulness of being perfectly in love. I give advice like a love guru, when in reality, I find it hard to apply what I preach. That’s the way it is.

I am not perfectly clueless when it comes to relationships because I have had several, but what I think is that there are general advices for people suffering love’s tests, and people enjoying love’s delights. We all know them but we just want to hear them from people who care about us. It’s more comforting to hear the reality from a person who at least listens to what we have to share. The counsels vary. Nonetheless, they are all clichés. We just need to find the perfect words, and sometimes, the perfect moments.

I am a hopeless romantic, and I pleasure in reading romantic novels, particularly Nicholas Sparks’ and those of not-so-popular authors. Although Sparks had this kind of format in the story, like his personal morphology of a narrative, I always find myself indulged in guessing how stories will end, and unlike others who always look forward to the conclusion, I am so amazed at how an event in a story unfolds, and how love develops.

Besides reading, I spend time watching movies and I particularly love romantic comedies and heavy dramas because just the same, I have a keen interest on learning about other people’s lives and how protagonists and antagonists handle the circumstances that usually surprise them. It makes me realize how the plot was well thought of.

No matter how cyclical everything may seem, I just enjoy it like a little girl enjoys her huge collection of Barbie dolls. And I’m not throwing away this kind of delight.

But to a hopeless romantic like me, the realization just came lately. In the past few days, love in the story is the most important criterion for me to indulge myself in a book or a movie. But today, what was left was a vestige of romance – not eating most part of my heart and soul.

I found suspense stories more interesting now, stories that make me feel like I can actually take part in a certain investigation of a mystery, and not merely act as an audience in a love story and shed my bucket of reserved tears. I love how thrillers give me hunches, and feelings of cowardice and excitement all at the same time. Although not necessary, I must admit that I am an avid fan of suspense stories where the main protagonist is a woman. Not to say that I am a feminist, but I find it easier to relate because women have a general set of instincts, and we basically have mutual sensibilities.

I admire women who are courageous, just like the way I admire my mom. It makes me feel like I have the power to overcome whatever mysteries I might encounter along the way, one of which is love. Now, I see love as part of a bigger picture, and no matter how necessary love is in our lives, especially in women’s, I feel an inner truancy and achievement when I finish reading a book or watching a movie that served my criteria of a thriller very well.

Love stories, though, are not considered totally kaput in my interest. Even though I don’t find it necessary for a person like me to dive into relationships and deal with the usual love mayhem, I still believe that one day, I can write a suspense story about a woman who dreamed, failed, observed, scrutinized, failed again, moved on, LOVED, investigated, GOT HURT, MOVED ON, LOVED AGAIN and triumphed in the end – like she maximized her life to the best of her ability.

In that manner, I won’t feel “cramped, cabined, cribbed, and confined” (as Macbeth once said.) And I will feel triumphant, although not rich or popular or perfect, and will remain a hopeless romantic. After all, that is how my interest in books and movies started.

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