Love In The Time Of Blogorrhea

Ancient are the days when flowers and the burning tales of their provenance are preserved by wedging their petals between weights of voluminous books. Our befuddled generation is often dazzled by parental tales of long-drawn-out courtships, their rigorous pursuits and impassioned rituals. Then was the olden sleepy age where emotional bonds don't go obsolete at the blink of an eyelash.

Fast track into the age of Blogorrhea where affairs get outdated faster than last season’s prom dress; hyper reality and virtual life supersedes the ability to foster meaningful relationships outside the confines of cyberspace. Behold, a generation of lonely disposables!

If one chooses to walk the easy delusions of romance, then he condemns himself into the kind of doom that is not only laughable - He willingly impales himself in the kind of tragic isolation that can only be found in characters of Armistead Mauphin novels.

People express amusement over those who hold on to even the slightest manifestations of love—those who persist in the notion of old school romanticism. Such frailty is sneered upon. Mockery is riddled like arrows on fools who keep candy wrappers—junk remains of presents from departed lovers. We ridicule those who preserve bus tickets in commemoration of that first bout with togetherness.

Are we being resentful, are we bitter that others are having it good? And the only way to conceal our hidden ache for even the most petty symptoms of genuine fondness is through behaving with cynical airs. Of perpetuating the pretense of someone who can’t be bothered by trivialities of a so-called smoldering devotion?

The urge to ridicule is easy. To an outsider that roll of brittle bus ticket holds neither value nor meaning, mere rubbish that serves no purpose but to be swept with the rest of life’s impertinent discardables. However to the one who invested a memory of sublime affection in correlation to that insignificant ticket, disposing of such a possession is a mindless act that will provoke unspeakable anguish. Remembrance is the past time of those who voluntarily wish to suffer.

Think of movie theater tickets, a string of pearls, a strand of hair imprisoned in heirloom lockets, or just the lingering dampness of rousing to the softness of a sweet kiss—they are of no value to anyone. But to the one who carry the remembrance of that one shared moment, it is an enduring keepsake of a capacity to nurse that peculiar warmth that no amount of bruises and aches can diminish.

Confronted by the ruthless swirl of a mad cyberworld, our unspoken hope is to take a vacation from fleeting flickers and free-fall into the scarce flash of permanence.