PERHAPS I WAS WRONG

Infatuation. The greatest thing of all, triumphing even love, yet somehow its the most terrifying devil known. It keeps one up all night, keeps the heart pounding way too loud, keeps the fingers refreshing each page. The eagerness, the anticipation are the only things keeping you going yet somehow they slowly kill the fire warming your emotions.

What is infatuation? Its the crazy sensation of roller coasters speeding in the pit of your tummy when you first meet someone. Its when the person lets on and you want to know more and more. Its what makes girls wait by phones and constantly check their phones for texts. Its what makes teenagers stalk their favourite celebs on Twitter. There is nothing more one would like than to speak to their object of infatuation. There is nothing more delectable than a long conversation with that oh-so fascinating person. There is nothing more agonizing than playing back all the conversations and realising that you should have said this or not mentioned that. There is no better past time than gushing about everything he/she said to one's friends. There is nothing more anguishing than waiting for a text, an online message. There is none more distressing than wondering when that call would come, prepping yourself and then losing your mind the moment the call is answered. But the worse of all would be the subtle hints that you are not that significant to that other person, despite all the inane torment on your part.

That person is on your mind all the time. What do you know? What do you not know? So many things you just want to cling on to and clutch to your chest like your childhood pillow. Hating every moment that captivating being spends away and completely despising each nanosecond he/she spends with someone else. You take a rock given to you, a scrap of information, and build a dream mansion from in, painting a picture of someone of your wildest fantasy. In the end, the only one we are infatuated with is the perfect character created by our subconscious mind. We desire a lie.

It only goes two ways. Either to love or to becoming virtual strangers again. If its the first, good for you. But the infatuated stage is the one period most couples look back upon fondly, wishing it back, not knowing why love, the love so patient and kind, was never more soul-satisfying than pure want. The latter however, is like dying a cruelly slow death. The calls, the texts gradually slow down. Conversations are punctuated with long, inexplicable silences. Where did the excitement go? Where did the quick comebacks and sweet astonishment at every new revelation go? Was this it? And finally the silent acceptance and the faint curiosity at what could have been at each mention of the person's name.

Everyone has been infatuated. Infatuation is selfish. Infatuation is greedy. Infatuation is jealous. Infatuation is impatient. Infatuation is food for the soul. It thrives on every hopeful word, on each crushing rejection.

Why do we seek to suffer like this?