Scary Fairytales

Is a fairy tale a dangerous place to be?

I have seen a lot of these mushy love stories already, interesting, light and amusing plots written by teens whose illusion of falling in love is quite too far from being realistic. They have this illusion that fairy tales do exist. That a handsome, rich guy can actually fall in love with a poor, ugly girl. That a guy with an ugly personality can actually change for a random stranger who speaks wisdom to his ears. That a super star can actually have an ever after with a fan. That a long-time crush can actually feel something for someone hopelessly in love with him because of what has been written in a diary or a love letter. That a bet or a wish can actually lead to true love to be discovered. That love seems to be transitory. conditional. petty. meant to expire.

I could not blame them.

In a world where you need to network in order to establish connections, where you need to rely on filters in order to get noticed, where you look up to celebrities for standards of your own existence, where your affection comes with the approval of the universe as you publicly display it, where you get frustrated with having to make realities make sense because they tend to be more complicated…well, these apprehensions make fairy tales a more pleasurable route to take as a a short cut to pure bliss.

Now this alarms me.

If most of young people nowadays are blinded by these illusions of love, then how will they handle being disillusioned by harsh realities that falling in love is not as fancy as the fantasies in paper backs? That falling in love is rough as the pages of these paper backs? That the reality is, falling in love is serious business and the very complicated route they for long avoid?

This alarms me because while I am fascinated by these shallow plots, the rest of the population of young people actually consider them seriously.

Like seriously?

If this persists, whatever will happen to real courtship? true commitment? sense of sacrifice? “death do us part”? What will happen if they seriously hang on their hopes to the odds that their one true love is behind a mask in a ball, or the kiss under the moonlit sky, or the icy embrace in a snow-capped wonderland, or if the shoe fits?

Not like I have anything against these ideal romantic set ups.

My concern is, they are too blinded by fantasies that they shut their eyes to see the realities, that the best love story is not found on paperbacks. The best love story is the true love they themselves write. The best love story begins just as it is felt, and it will never have to end. No background. No fireworks. No moon. Just plain true love.

I can’t help but be scared, because true love is supposed to be real not fancy.

True love is supposed to know no end.

Forever 22: A Throwback

Ten years ago, I stopped counting.

Just when exactly do you say you are old enough?

In my case, ten years ago, I had to mature and forget everything about being young and free. Being responsible for another life forced me to be stuck with being 22.

And I stopped counting.

Maybe I grew tired of growing up. Maybe I desired that point of my life immortalized. Maybe I never wanted to grow older after all.

Had it really been ten years now?

Ten years ago, when I was 22, there were so many things I wanted to do…things that anyone who is 22 would probably have in mind too. I wanted to travel the world, meet new people, try rare hobbies, do odd jobs, write a novel, publish an article in a local daily, spend long nights with friends, drink until I drop, jump off a cliff, splurge on books, binge eat, crash into parties, sweat in concerts, maintain a scrapbook, witness a war, be lawyer…the list is long.

Instead, I was given a bigger opportunity that only asked me to do one thing: give life. It was the most painful yet the most rewarding adventure I had to go through. Like I desired it when I was 22, since then, I still got to  travel into an unknown world, meet people that renewed me, invent hobbies to keep everyone amused, do funny jobs like wiping cute butts and feeding using a part of my body, write growth journals, publish milestones daily online, spend long nights watching creatures get cuter and cuter each time, drink limitless cups of coffee to keep me up, jump on and off the bed like crazy, splurge on picture books, binge eat on lollies and cookies, crash into children’s parties, sweat in Barney sing-alongs, invest on a lifetime scrapbook, witness sibling rivalries, and be the fountain of justice implementing laws of order and conduct, and standards of good judgment….the list is still long.

Ten years ago, I thought I skipped on the things I have always wanted to do. The truth is, I did the same things, only for a more profound purpose.

Ten years ago, I became a mom, and what great difference that made to my perception of aging. Being a mom turned my world upside down in an exciting kind of way. Being a mom clarified my purpose for living. Being mom made me selfless. Being a mom inspired me to think of others before myself. Being a mom took me away from the shallow desires of existence and transported me to a deeper sense of commitment and responsibility.

For these reasons, if I am going to be stuck this way forever, I really don’t mind.

Ten years ago, I stopped counting…and I started living for the moment.