I have a penchant for carrying on in longtime meaningless relationships and an accompanying habit of flying through short ephemeral meaningful ones.
I like love in movies. Stories of fantastic meetings, falling helplessly in love while on some reckless misadventure. Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist. Before Sunrise. Or the love that is deeply rooted in destiny that any chaos will not disrupt the fated course. Serendipity. Amelie. Even stories of love so profound and full of tragedy. Romeo and Juliet. Closer.
It’s the every day. The mundane. The ordinary that bores me. The: Who’s turn is it to wash the dishes? Why didn’t you call me back? What do you want to have for dinner tonight? I’m going to bed early; I’m tired.
Boring.
I like the beginnings. Love stories are always about the beginnings and the ends of relationships. The thrill of someone new. The ache of someone lost. These are the stories that move us.
These are the only relationships I tend to have and thrive on. It’s the clichéd boredom in the middle that makes me want to stab myself to shake me out of the monotony.
I’m hot or cold. Fast or slow. Depending on who you are to me.
I fall in love every two weeks. I tend to meet people easily. I tend to connect with people wildly and unrestrained. Hence, the falling in love. Hence, the every two weeks. It must be because my love for movies. For stories. Romantic heedless ones. Hapless lovers crossing paths unexpectedly and falling in love fast and free.
Or I might just have ADHD.
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