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Happiness

It took me a long time to write this post. Not because I couldn’t think of something to say. But because there is so much to say. And yet, I won’t. “Is this going to be another one of your sarcastic, poetic rants about life”, I hear you thinking. Well. It might be. But then again, you love my sarcastic rants, don’t you?

It honestly took me hitting the bottom hard — apparently ‘bottom’ also has a basement, I discovered this year — crashing & burning, hitting my head several times and, more recently, developing the maddest flue to be able to spark my creativity again into late-night writing sessions while a pile of work awaits me in a dark corner of the house. With tea. Obviously. Because, how else would I be able to write? Exactly.

“Why ‘happiness'”, you ask? Because I am. Completely and utterly happy. After hitting said bottom. After crashing & burning. After having lost so much & feeling more free than ever. And after chasing (a)way too many boys. “Is this going to be another post about you trying to fake your best Carrie Bradshaw-love-life-voice?”, you can’t help but wonder? Well. It might be. Because I did chase way too many boys to not not write about. And failed miserably. But I did it all for your entertainment. You know. Obviously.

It’s like my alter ego Carrie once said, “When men attempt bold gestures, generally it’s considered romantic. When women do it, it’s often considered desperate or psycho.” Is running — me, running, haha — to one’s house in the middle of the night to declare your love to said one, considered psycho? Or is it mere passion, for life & love and the unwanted-ness of such passion to die out like most of our generation’s love — if you could call it that — stories? Perhaps it ìs considered psycho, but only when you fail at it and that said one leaves you in the street with nothing but a full-blown panic attack to comfort yourself with.
Because no way in hell did you think

this was going to be like a movie and no way in hell did you think that love was going to answer in the same way that you knocked on its door, right? No way in hell did you think it was going to be this easy. And yet. Then there is me.

Amantes amentes.

Those who love are foolish. Indeed I am. They always claim to “lose yourself in love”. Well, I seem pretty darn lost to me. Any more ‘lost’ and I would be fully ready to partake in one famous tv-show of the same name. And still, I roam the earth eating cheesecakes by myself. Why is it then, when women mightily throw themselves into a love affair they deem worthy of Harry & Sally-magnitude, they get shot down like deer around Christmas time? Or get blocked off of every social media channel ever developed and known to mankind, for that matter — it happened to me twice this year and I wish that were one of my sarcastic-LOL-WTF Christine-jokes that you so much adore but it’s sadly unsarcastically not the case — because apparently it doesn’t suffice anymore to just simply speak the words “niggah nah, we done”.
And then people wonder why I suffer from mild (dating) anxiety from time to time & have slight trust issues with the Romeo’s of this era. Or why I sometimes take approx. half a day, a glass of wine and a full page of drafts to respond to a guy’s text. And then use the other half of the day contemplating the content of that text and thinking of exactly 87 ways I could’ve worded it better. Let’s just say our lord has not blessed Christine with the ability of being charming over text. The struggle is there and it’s definitely real, y’all

This generation is also passionate about endings, more than about beginnings. About drama. About hurt. About building walls. About being surprised people keep crashing into these walls on the way to our hearts. We are passionate about ‘bae’s’ — please, stop — and about #relationshipgoals. About power 

couples. But never about love an sich. Because love is scary. Because love makes you fall down 99 times before you get to walk up to the aisle on the 100th time. Because I’ve met too many wonderful souls that were hurt one too many times by the arms of love & sea of troubles to see someone offering them a piece of their passion. They too have ‘lost themselves in love’; they lost their strength to love, and to be loved in return. This generation runs around stealing hearts because it’s so much damn easier to break another’s than it is to fix their own. And because lately I feel like I’m painting pictures for the blind every time I reach out to someone. But then again, “If you’ve never felt your soul being torn apart, you’ve never really loved anyone with all your heart.” See, Chrissy can be sweet & corny & cheesy instead of sarcastic-bitchy too sometimes.

The people who know this far better than me are my girl & guy friends who — voluntarily or under light compulsion of yours truly — have to sit through endless ‘fuckboy’ talks, decrypting messages like we’re part of The Da Vinci Code-cast (because no man has ever mastered the art of a wonderful invention called communication) and late-night-anxiety-phone calls about why read receipts are inventions of the devil himself. Oh, and not to forget, the endless tagging each other in oh-so-relatable memes on Instagram. And well, you now, listening to my poetic stories like it’s 1852 and considering yours truly a modern day Walter Whitman, thinking I have sunken into a deep comatic depression while all I am trying to squeeze out of my creative late-night session is that, through all the heart break, aching for love and pining to someday find someone with whom I can have a deeper connection with than I currently have with food, I am truly, utterly, mightily & undoubtedly happy. Because I’m in the best place I’ve ever been in life. Because I am passionate. Because I refuse to live any other way than to love, and to love hard. Because I believe.

Amor vincit omnia.

Because right now, the love that conquers all is the love for my own crazy, wild child, chocolate-eating & wine-binge-drinking psycho and desperate self, holding onto the movie-like idea of love. Because someday I will run and knock on love’s door. And someday, I will write sarcastic bitchy posts about how love opened that door.

WEARING // Zara blouse – Zara heels – Vintage skirt – Parfois bag – Vintage scarf

 

PHOTOGRAPHY // Jonathan Sommereyns

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You describe your heart
As cold
But in reality
There is no cold
Just a lack of heat
And I think this feeling
You feel
Is the result of
Too much love being put out
And not enough love
Being given back,
And all the blankets
In the world
Could not cure you
But the arms of one lover
Wrapped tightly around your waist
Could heat your heart enough
To burst out of your chest
And bring the earth
To flames

@christinesmeyers