New Old Romantic

I romanticize everything in life.

I was just in a call with a good friend since the university days. As I always do, when I’m feeling extra romantic with my hormones going ballistic as I bleed, I lamented with a great sentiment of defeat how life is lived nowadays in a transient and mundane routine bereft of depth and critical reflection. I know it’s not just me, and my ever judge-y head projecting my frustration to the life I lead, and that is exactly one that’s deprived of sense.

Ah, the existential crisis, the perpetual, immutable plague. A cliché, you will say. While bleak and dreadful, the questions around it labored schools of thought, paved paths and practices and lifestyles, and invented art and forms of expression most enduring and reincarnating, ironically. This is my defense. So let me tackle the crisis head on.

With that as an excuse, I’m back to a little longer form of writing. Because this is the easiest way I know how to channel the spaghetti-twirl static fuzz in polychromatic fireworks of emotions my tiny broken, broken heart could muster. Yapping is easier. Some days, I manically belt my larynx out accompanied by frantic bodily movements, or pretend-Tony Bourdain at my tiny outdoor kitchen 33/F above the ground, and then pass out from exhaustion. Yapping is easier.

So let’s toast to existential crisis, to art, to hearts loving unconditionally – I have stories to tell.