It's funny how you catch yourself falling in love. It doesn't come to you all at once, not really, not like people say it does. It comes together like puzzle pieces, like shards of a broken stained glass window, and the moment that the last chip clicks into place feels like a spontaneous combustion of the senses but is actually more like breaking the surface of the water in a swimming pool after clawing your way up from the bottom. Suddenly you're in love, and everything is rosy, but it's not sudden, is it? Because all along you've been comparing the whole of creation to the colour of his eyes and finding it lacking.
The mass consciousness of the world is hopelessly romantic, waiting to be swept off their feet, anxiously expecting their surprise to come, and we've been told it should arrive within 6-8 weeks, and we've been tracking our happily ever after online, and its shipped now, but icy roads have delayed it at the factory, and oh, will our Prince ever come? The post is so unreliable these days. We tap our fingers against the table and pace the floors with impatience and wait and wait and wait and then when the time comes we act as if we had no idea this lovely thing called love was headed our way at all, as if we hadn't preordered a few months prior to its arrival.
But that is the beautiful thing about it, I suppose. It's silly when we look at it from the outside, that we get so swept up in the chemical imbalances and the infectious hormones that we can't even see that we made this happen, that we had our fingers in the pie for a very, very long time. Yet isn't it romantic, how inclined we are to fairy tale endings? Even depression is like a dark love story, even suicide is a dramatic swan dive into Something Else. Everything that humans do is part of one gigantic, never-ending melodrama.
"All the world's a stage." - As You Like It, William Shakespeare
We are all constantly unconsciously propelling ourselves towards the destiny that we've chosen, picked and laid out on the bed like tomorrow morning's outfit. Nothing is spontaneous or unexpected or unplanned... not really. All of our plot twists were set by the very hands that trip them, all of our shocks are cleverly orchestrated accents in the discordant symphony of our lives.
So love, be passionate, give in to your wild, inpromptu, carefully scheduled fancies. All the world's a stage, and all the actors are playwrights. Who could better play your part than you?
