Since I entered my teens I’ve been an avid reader of romance novels. Tragic heroines, vengeful dashing heroes, and happily ever after endings. The ideal lives, stories that started with mutual hate, progressed to passionate encounters and ended with delightful joining of souls, happily settled lead pairs, and the villains behind bars. And I used to spend hours day dreaming on the storylines of these novels, with my current crush in the role of the dashing hero, me the sweet innocent wronged heroine, and a sorting out of all troubles, eventually leading to us riding off in the beautiful sunset. I’d dream of someday writing such beautiful stories. Growing up, I had my fair share of romances and heart breaks, but the stories were always there to reassure me, remind me that romance is alive, just not here with me. After every break up, every dashed dream, I’d read my favorite novels, and start day dreaming about the next story. Until one day when I woke up jaded. The enchantment of these stories was broken. I realized the futility of love, the reality of love. And these novels sat there lined up on my shelf mocking me with their brutally unrealistic titles: ‘Love Rules’; ‘Burning Desire’ and others just as ridiculous. When had I grown up? When did the magic of these utterly romantic words start leaping up from the pages and trying to eat me? Suddenly, they became poison pen words. And I realized finally that they are stories. Period. They can never be translated to life. The kind of passionate love they promoted existed only in them, in reality love is nothing like the books it is glorified in. love is ugly, love is pain, and love is vengeful. Love is not sweetness and air, it is not all happy spring days, and diamond rings. Love is dark and twisted, love is stormy cold winter nights, grey snowy days, and love is deceitful. It makes you trust, it leads you down a path of thorns that ends in a pit fall. And all these books that paint these pretty pictures with their happy words and beautiful people, are just that. Pictures. Good to look at but stupid to try to bring to life. The words mocked me, made fun of me, and made me look back at those wonderful days of day dreaming and long for them to come back. If I could turn back time and go back to those summer vacations reading these now seemingly mindless novels, I’d turn it back and go back there. I’d stop myself from believing in it. Stop myself from being made a fool of by authors who believed in happy endings. Made myself realize then that happiness of that sorted existed only in these books. Meant to be read and forgotten. It is easier not to believe, than to believe and loose faith. Because that just seems like the worst kind of betrayal.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
A Jaded End to Beautiful Dreams
Since I entered my teens I’ve been an avid reader of romance novels. Tragic heroines, vengeful dashing heroes, and happily ever after endings. The ideal lives, stories that started with mutual hate, progressed to passionate encounters and ended with delightful joining of souls, happily settled lead pairs, and the villains behind bars. And I used to spend hours day dreaming on the storylines of these novels, with my current crush in the role of the dashing hero, me the sweet innocent wronged heroine, and a sorting out of all troubles, eventually leading to us riding off in the beautiful sunset. I’d dream of someday writing such beautiful stories. Growing up, I had my fair share of romances and heart breaks, but the stories were always there to reassure me, remind me that romance is alive, just not here with me. After every break up, every dashed dream, I’d read my favorite novels, and start day dreaming about the next story. Until one day when I woke up jaded. The enchantment of these stories was broken. I realized the futility of love, the reality of love. And these novels sat there lined up on my shelf mocking me with their brutally unrealistic titles: ‘Love Rules’; ‘Burning Desire’ and others just as ridiculous. When had I grown up? When did the magic of these utterly romantic words start leaping up from the pages and trying to eat me? Suddenly, they became poison pen words. And I realized finally that they are stories. Period. They can never be translated to life. The kind of passionate love they promoted existed only in them, in reality love is nothing like the books it is glorified in. love is ugly, love is pain, and love is vengeful. Love is not sweetness and air, it is not all happy spring days, and diamond rings. Love is dark and twisted, love is stormy cold winter nights, grey snowy days, and love is deceitful. It makes you trust, it leads you down a path of thorns that ends in a pit fall. And all these books that paint these pretty pictures with their happy words and beautiful people, are just that. Pictures. Good to look at but stupid to try to bring to life. The words mocked me, made fun of me, and made me look back at those wonderful days of day dreaming and long for them to come back. If I could turn back time and go back to those summer vacations reading these now seemingly mindless novels, I’d turn it back and go back there. I’d stop myself from believing in it. Stop myself from being made a fool of by authors who believed in happy endings. Made myself realize then that happiness of that sorted existed only in these books. Meant to be read and forgotten. It is easier not to believe, than to believe and loose faith. Because that just seems like the worst kind of betrayal.
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