The Mulberry Bush
“I’m such a cynic”, C announced over MSN one night when we were having our usual lament session on relationships. “We all are, C“, I sighed. But it has come to a point where being cynical is taboo. Insecurities have to be surpressed, doubts have to be pushed to the back of the mind. If you want to find love, you have to learn to feel free to love. And yet, in these times when the line that separates love and sex dissolves into nothing in the presence of lust and passion, we learn instead not to expect love as freely as we give them.
So lies the conundrum: When things aren’t going well, we accept the situation as it is and say we expected it to happen anyway. But when the pieces start falling into place miraculously, should you be suspicious? Or should you ignore that incessant nagging at the back of your head that tells you it’s all a farce, and that you should either pull back or just string each other along until the emotional drama dies a natural death?
I trust my secrets with C and E, as they do with me. But I might as well say I’m consorting with the Devil and her sister. Three cynics do not make a happy conversation. Recently, E spat at me: “Always protect your own interests. Never let them have emotional control over you. They’re all selfish. Love is blind, I should know. Been there, done that and see where it got me?” She’s going through a very bad divorce.
But even as they’re saying all these, they are themselves entwined in situations I’d like to call Episodes of Folly. All displays of confidence and all those rows of advice have just been rendered weak and worthless.
A Merry-Go-Round, that’s what it is. Exciting and dangerous. Spin too fast and you come out of it regretful and nauseous. Your vision becomes blurred and everything around you looks deceptively unsteady. You tell yourself you will not do it again. Again.