The Persuit of Love

I don’t think pursuing love, although it is usually blatantly unrequited, qualifies as masochism. Yes, at times it hurts as though someone just slammed their foot into your chest, and you’re still expected to breathe like nothing happened. Yes, sometimes the pain creeps up slowly, until one morning you wake up and realize you’re paralyzed with inexorable fear of putting yourself out in the world.

But the lottery-like success: the success of finding love is like a million euphoric moments squeezed into a time/space vortex, where nothing else matters, and nothing else ever will. The usual fatalist end-of-the-world notions are sucked into a black hole, not to be seen within this moment in time. The lover’s words, the long kisses, the assurance of self-affirmation…

It’s bliss. Pure, unadulterated, undeniable bliss.

So what I don’t understand is why everyone goes through the concepts of love like class registration.

Oh, I’ll try this one just to see if I like it.
Eh, this one seems nice and I could use the units, so, why not.
I’ll probably drop this one after three weeks, but that’s not my problem.

I hate serial dating. And I’m so sick of people who commit within a week, and change their mind in a month. No more hook-ups, no more short-term fixes, no more indecisive absurdity.

People need to pursue love again. They need to quit their addiction to instant gratification, and rekindle the days of chivalry and commitment. They need to get their heads out of media’s choice-laden society, and stay on the honest and noble path.

Because love never had to hurt so much, and so often.