I fear I am not a hopeless romantic anymore. I love in a way that does not consume me—I do not care to be consumed. I care to be loved, accepted, and appreciated. What is euphoria if it is coated in kerosene that will eventually light me aflame? What is bliss worth if it is also fugacious? Love does not interest me in extremes anymore. I do not fall endlessly. I do not give needlessly. Is this a sign that my reckless youth is over? That I now measure love in what it takes from me as well, not just what it gives me?
I am not alone, so there’s comfort in that. This Pablo Neruda poem coasts through my mind like a mantra:
If little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
This is the new world order in my heart, it seems. And yet, it has brought me peace somehow…
Me, Myself and Thine 