On Thursday night (rather, early Friday morning), my friends and I were discussing whether we would prefer to fall in love with (a) someone we had known since childhood or (b) a stranger. It was not until we parted that I came up with a defense for my answer. Knowing that my opinion could change in a year, a month, a day, I present my current thoughts on loving a stranger:
I want to fall in love with a stranger because I am a stranger to love.
I imagine that the more familiar you are to love, the more you want to love someone familiar.
But I could be wrong.
I am tired. I am emotionally exhausted.
I would rather fall in love with a stranger
than with someone I have known since childhood because,
at least for short term,
it would be easier to handle.
Perhaps it also stems from a dissatisfaction from my childhood years.
Each year, I get farther from the reminiscing side of the spectrum and deeper into bitterness.
Damn suburbia, damn materialistic blondes, damn popularity contests,
damn being a smart average-looking awkward blob of girl.
Fuck security. Fuck safety.
Fuck being raised in a padded bubble.
Fuck being irreversibly trained to be contained and obedient.
Fuck anxiety and self consciousness and depression.
Fuck lack of spontaneity.
I have lived in a box. I feel limited by the box.
I am frozen at a juncture where my box is bulging at the seams, on the verge of bursting,
but unable to do so. Either I recede back to my suburban, delicate self,
or I consciously break out of the box.
Loving a stranger could break me out of the box.
Before I can love someone I know, I need to love a stranger.
