the cliche of romantic life.
what do you do when all you see is romance? where do you put it?
Last night, a friend/lover of mine called me cliche, lol.
Now Playing: “Would You Rather,” by The Georgettes via Spotify
We were unraveling our feelings about each other and this r’ship: our pains, our fears, our joys… the things we misinterpreted and the things that were blatantly clear, even if it wasn’t so clear to ourselves at the moment. The things we said and did, and the things we didn’t (and probably should have). It was a cultivated bubble of transparency that was soft and at times melancholic, but so supportive and loving.
When that moment of silence approached—you know the one, where the conversation has been had and now you two are engulfed with the satisfaction that you just gotta sit in it for a bit—she spoke up.
“Whatchu about to do?”
“Put on some clothes,” I replied.
I heard this slight, “Wha–” from her, and I started giggling at her jolt of confusion. I had called her fresh out the shower and didn’t really anticipate our conversation starting from what our favorite crime thrillers were (Se7en, The Silence of the Lambs were mentioned) and moving to the ways we allowed ourselves to be seen by the other and how sweet it was. So when the conversation made its rollercoaster rounds to become very intimate, I wanted to take it in.
“You still don’t have clothes on?” she asked.
“No! We were talking, and I was into it. I’m just laying in bed in a towel.”
She sucked her teeth playfully. “That is so like you. So cliche.”
I laughed out loud at the thought and gasped, highly entertained by the statement. “What are you talking about? HOW am I cliche?”
“Because,” she started. She exhaled a great, big sigh and revealed: “Of course you’d have me on the phone opening up about my feelings, baring my soul with you... while you’re laying on your bed naked, wrapped in a towel from a shower you took 40 minutes ago. You’re a whole ass metaphor.”
Now Playing: “Down To Ride,” by Gary Clark Jr. via Spotify
The other day, I was musing with myself on the ways I’m such a romantic being. The movie playing in my head projects a world that’s absolutely gorgeous to me, even in the pain and sadness of it all. I’m not sure if it’s the Pisces moon shining a light on my hypersensitivity and the romanticism being a Top 2 (and not #2) coping mechanism, but I get by with romance. I just do. The ways I seek peace have to swoon me like a lover taking my hand in theirs to dance in the middle of our kitchen, the music of our hearts beating together being the soundtrack. The ways I wake up and lay still, staring at the ceiling. How I stare at the mirror a little longer as I finish my skincare routine in pursuit of looking like a glazed donut. When I cook, the Motown, neo-soul, or African jazz I play as I prance around. The face I beat and afro I brush up into a puff. The clothes I wear and the perfect shoes to step out into the streets with. The books I read, the coffee shops I sit in to work. The people I smile at and the random conversations I strike up. The affectionate way I speak to my family and friends.
All of this fills me up. But sometimes, my cup runneth over.
Or sometimes, there’s a lid. I can feel stifled by the romance, unsure of where to place it.
I remember telling this exact person a few days ago about my realization of my romanticism, and how sometimes, it’s so overwhelming that I don’t know what to do with it. She had to remind me of the ways in which I express myself in everything I do through romance, and that I should be careful not to overanalyze myself too much or often. “Just be, Cyn. You’re a romantic. It’s beautiful. Everything you touch, you put a little love in it.”
I know that overwhelming feeling can be me sitting in my thoughts, feeling a romance so strong, I’m eager to do something with it and don’t think to simply give it to myself. How do you give yourself romance that way you give everything else that same treatment? Simple:
I’m in Maryland right now, sitting at the kitchen island, listening to a playlist that has a lot of Gary Clark Jr. and George Jackson (not mad at all at this, tbh). A cup of room temperature peach tea sits to my right, with a used napkin stained in peanut butter and drips of honey from the toast I had, topped with banana slices, right next to my mug. Behind me is an assortment of huge windows, the gloomy natural light illuminating my work station. Fresh air is a love of mine, so I’ve cracked one of the windows open. And outside? Oh, man. Outside is a cute forest in our backyard. The wind is gentle but present, and the sound of the leaves growing from these tall, tall trees brushing against each other as the wind moves through them comforts me. Bits of the dead leaves twirl their way from their branch to our grass. Nature’s snowflakes. Dare I say, this entire set up is so encouraging. I’m writing with all the joy in the world as I recollect this mood I’ve set, and I’m swept by the effortlessness it creates.
I’ve romanced myself.
Now Playing: “Walking the City Streets,” by George Jackson via Spotify
I guess, in some ways, I am a cliche. And that cliche is romance. I don’t think her telling me I was, was a jab at all. Just an observation that tickled me. To be or follow a cliche doesn’t always have to be a bad thing, it’s just MY thing. And as overwhelming as it can be at times, I swear to God, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can learn to govern these heart-eyed glasses a little better… okay. MUCH better. Not everything’s all lovey-dovey, right? And I don’t live in this headspace 24/7. I think that’s an overload that may be somewhat of an insult to the many layers that inhabit me. But life is romantic. The laws of how it ebbs and flows out of our control are so intriguing and rich to me, despite whether it goes my way or not. I can find beauty and yearning in many things. I wanna smile and feel deeply and sweetly about so much.
I swoon so often, and when the going gets tough, romance keeps me going.
Now Playing: “Do You Want To Dance,” by Bette Midler via Spotify
“A metaphor, huh?” I asked after laughing from her explanation.
“Yes!”
“You wanna really nail it on the head?” I dared.
“What?”
“I’m also sitting in the dark with just the light from the bathroom on, right by the window to catch the night breeze—”
She grunts playfully, chuckling at my description. “That gotdamn breeze—”
We’re laughing together now. “But I love it! I love all of it. My life is my movie, and it’s a romantic one, y’know?”
“Yeah, yeah. I know…” The silence comes back again. We’re sitting in this sweet playfulness, and it’s—you guessed it—romantic. Intimate. I hug my knees to my chest and lay against them, warm to the touch from this entire exchange we shared, a smile stretching across my face. Until—
“Alright,” she says. “Go put some clothes on.”
Do you live a cliche? And if so, how does it keep you going?
Love,
Cynthia