Reality.

It pierced my heart through and through, to realise that I was bound not only by fear, but by pride, too.

I have been doing a lot of thinking about this. The only explanation I can think of for the random and yet cohesive string of events, encounters and conversations challenging my view on relationships is that there is a godly conspiracy going on- God is using circumstance and people to make me sit up and think about my narrow-minded, unrealistic and proud views about this before it becomes too late.

It was Amos, my swim coach-friend, who lectured me most candidly, amongst many others.

" Look. You can't be so proud, okay? Yea, I'm not surprised you know- you have high expectations, a mind of your own, you want to be a surgeon, you're doing sports and this and that... Hey, get real okay- you're not going to find someone who fits all of your expectations and to be honest, I think you're pretty scary doing all that you've been doing."

Well, I can't help it if my blood is made of adrenalin, but I ought to be able to do something about my pride. This week, for the first time, I confessed to a friend, that for all my vehement denial, I am first, proud, secondly, unrealistic and thirdly (and also least willing to admit and most ashamed about), a diehard romantic at heart. Darn.

I defend myself: I am a writer. Those of us who write, paint, sing... will know that our imagination takes our reality to dangerous places. Our idealism takes us many frightful miles away. In a few minutes of daydreaming, we have been somewhere else for ages, basking in the comfort of a fairytale set in medieval times, where chivalry and beauty and righteousness play out in perfect cinematography, writing it down, and the effort of swimming back into everyday reality can be painful. It is almost a shock. Because we take it upon ourselves that our job is to remind an ugly and failing world that true love, chivalry, beauty, faith and loyalty exist, and to do so we convince ourselves that it all is true. We take it upon ourselves that it is our job, our responsibility, to make sure that the sword we wield reminds the world that the good guys win, that amazing stories are true, and that a fool’s hope may be the best kind.

I avoid romantic films and romantic novels like the plague, for my pride says I am above all the marshmallow mishmash, even though I do secretly enjoy them. But it is out of self-defense- the writer in me insists that only what is Real is beautiful, and so I feed on non-fiction and true stories of love, inspiration and goodness. But the down side is, the exceptional and extraordinary stories of reality become my standard for the norm, and I suspect that is just as serious as contracting a fantasial infection, if not, worse, because I expect it to happen for me, too. Or at least, I entertain the possibility with great seriousness.

The past few weeks have been a hazy, difficult struggle to swim back to a reality I am not sure I have recollection of. Within a span of a few weeks, I had news that 3 pairs of my friends had broken up, 2 pairs had just formed and 2 pairs were getting married. All their stories were laced with struggles, heartaches, uncertainty. I am not sure if I have the courage or humility to go back there. I have been swimming out there for a long time, maybe all my life. Now that the waters are choppy and I am afraid of being left alone out there as sharkfeed, I am trying to head back to shore.

This has been very hard for me- I am an artist, an idealist. And now I have to deposit my scrolls and scrolls of manuscript of ideas of love and romance in a jar and give it to God, tell Him I want nothing more to do with them unless He wants to make use of it. I have to stop the unconscious comparisons of the present with experiences of the past, because those who were too expressive and suave were frivolous and unsteadfast- so for all their creative pursuit and impressive resumes, how can they be yardsticks? The artist argues why can't one have the best of both worlds, and she realises at that point, that the currents have become dangerously strong and the shore has disappeared from the horizon.

Amos says I need to get real. So do another 2, 3... 6 people who have come to tell me of late. Aunty Ay agrees that God is taking me through this process so I can renew my mind to learn humility, reality and love. Aunty L and Aunty Ay say that even though I may have shot myself in the foot multiple times in the past, God can still redeem the many mistakes I made along the way. Whatever will be shall be, they say, whoever it is should still be there in spite of my stupidity, and it will become apparent in God's time, even after walking one big circumlocuting round.

Perhaps loving someone in reality is like owning my bike. It is not perfect. It is not a dream machine. My bike costs a third of what a basic one would cost and so it is one size too big for me, the handlebars are 3 inches too far, it has 7 gear chains instead of the normal 10 which means I have to pedal much harder uphill, it weighs 12 kilos instead of the usual 10 kilos, and its gear shifters are at the wrong place. So many people have told me there is a better, faster, lighter dream bike out there with a better fit. Somewhere out there, Perfect is waiting, they say.

(with a two thousand-dollar bill.)

But I have refused that offer. My bike is right for me because it is what it is- modest. It is what I can afford at this point. It is what God has allowed me to own at this point. It has taken me places, it is dear to me, I love it for what it is. It has been a blessing from God and I didn't deserve it in the first place. Sure, I have to live with the fact that the gears aren't very good but for all it's worth, it is special to me. And if you were to give me a swanky, better bike at this point, it would only fit me worse- in an over-pretentious, opulent sort of way. My bike is plain and modest- but that is what makes it beautiful and perfect to me. It is real. I know I would love an upgrade, but is it what God wants for me? Does He not use our circumstance to teach us gratitude and modesty and simplicity? (I know the kind of person right for me would not buy kate spade for me or take me to fancy places all the time, and that is unfortunate only in a temporal kind of way.)

And if I constantly allowed myself to swim out to entertain what could have been, what it could be, would I not be utterly miserable, and miss my beautiful reality for a non-existent fantasy? I am wondering if this is a lesson I am to learn- that Beautiful is what you want to make out of your reality, even if it is far from fantasial perfection. After all, carriages which turn into pumpkins may not fare so well in our urban times.

And tears well up in my eyes to know that I am very far away and must swim back to shore, even if it would cost me an arm and a leg. Because it is the only beautiful and true way to live.

Even as a writer.

In Reality.