This is another story about love.
There were so many things that we would not understand when we were children. So we needed parents and seniors to guide us and teach us. Werther Armand, despite his tiny skull and short legs, had shown exceptional intelligence vis-à-vis the children of his age group. Naturally, he had this reputation of raising highly challenging questions to his teachers, and basically anyone older than him. Every time he came up something new and his little brain could not get the answer, he would reach out for help of the elders. One day, while sucking his thumb and contemplating the concept of love, which he had been hearing the young girls talking about for a few days, he bumped into his kindergarten mistress and fell. Ms. Maple picked him up and patted the dirt away from his short. Werther Armand looked up and saw her teeth shinning under the scatters of sunshine. For the first time, he forgot his thumb and Marguerite Karenina. His cheeks went red. They were like a pair of lovers running into each other besides a tree in the afternoon of late summer. He held the hand of Ms. Maple and asked if this was love.
“Well, my boy, life is complicated, when you grow up, you will understand. For the moment, tidy up your toys and don’t wet the bed.” Ms. Maple, unsurprised by the little lad’s bold statement, took Werther Armand back to the playground with other children.
This encounter had happened too early before I reached the same height as my kindergarten mistress. As I grow up and enter in the adulthood, I only realised that the first part of her statement is right. Life is indeed very complicated. For the second part, she is wrong. The more we grow up, the less we understand. Being an adult is to pretend that you know better than the young people even though you yourself have no idea what it is about. Being honest with your limits of intelligence and perception is not appreciated in this society. We are expected to fake the same common experience as everyone else. We have to love the way as everyone else loves. When it is à la mode to love women with long hair, women naturally have it; when it is a pleasure to be accompanied by men with big arms, men naturally hit the gym more often. We only love a particular image, a particular resemblance, a particular experience that would echo our own experience and social expectations. Other than that, it is easy to be lost. Speaking of this, we are not much more advanced than dogs that depend on their piss to recognise their environment and routine. We rely on the surroundings of a person or an object for reconstructing love. Without all those stuffs, we are a homeless dog wandering in the empty streets looking for our own piss. We have no idea where our home is, where love is.
However, I do remember that afternoon with Ms. Maple. I had not those cinematographic romance indoctrinations at that young age. I knew that particular feeling was intrinsic. I knew that it was love.
Bye for now, see you next blog!