You work all week, endure endless douchebaggery and idiocy, and restrain your nocturnal vivacity until the calendar reads Friday—only to be rewarded with the vapid, ravenous gauntlet of bar-light romance. These spurious, oft-desperation laden affairs commence and end within the warzone of nightclub communication. This mine-ridden field of conversation suffers from drunken logic, noise pollution, and toxic levels of loneliness—oftentimes resulting in commiserations of half-truths, flattery, and general, coquettish pandering. The subsequent hangover of disappointment, regret, and cavalier nostalgia creates a cycle of despair and frustration that continually leaves the lonesome adventurer jaded.
These quests, undergone in the hopes of achieving connection and fueling escapism, extract a heavy toll on the emotionally fragile. These continued forays into the battlefield of love, lust, and decadence fray the hearts of even the most decent souls—subsequently ensuring a continued trend of misappropriating “love” for fun. The quandary here being—we are seeking pearls in a viper’s nest. The romantic notion of “the diamond in the rough” is endlessly applicable in this circumstance. More and more it seems the viperous sting of disappointment is a catalyst for further seeking; as if nestled within this cancerous matrix of pain and romantic disaster there resides salvation. It is this delusion that sustains these bouts of self-degradation and flagellation, and furthermore, ensures that our perception of love is destined to warp into some unrecognizable, mythic ideal—essentially assuring disappointment via self-fulfilling prophecy.
To alleviate these corrosive sojourns into emotional mutilation, one must tweak their perspective—a paradigm shift that allows for reason to penetrate the mercurial recesses of the heart. By redirecting our emotional compasses towards more realistic pastures—ones rich in sincerity and devoid of pageantry—we allow ourselves the opportunity to ascend from the pitiable farce of nocturnal amore. By unshackling the tethers of myopia, happiness is possible, if—and only if—we are vigilant in our pursuits.
The only victim in the game of love is the one we create—so why play at all? Better to live the unfiltered truth, than slowly expire and jade under the glittering falsehoods of the rancorous game.