"your soulmate would want to date you"

speak for yourself

The first time I heard the line, I gave it the regular few seconds of tiktok-epiphany-induced slack-jawed awe - the same way everyone does when a biting internet comment cuts just the right way. The offense you feel is always exciting, though it doesn’t last. The internet tends to wring emotional reactions dry, through added exposure and repeated bites.

The sixth time I heard it, I was past it. I didn’t take a moment to sigh or stare at a wall. The sharp concern of the statement had blunted and given way to snark, because that’s what it was. Close your eyes and you’ll see the derision too. Delivered by the prettiest woman you’ve seen this week, mid-mascara application. Or chanted at you in monotone by some gym-junkie tank-top prince, crowned with curls and eternally sweat-laden brow.

When people talk about dating online, they’re always asking something more of you. Self-critique, self-respect, self-love. Something self-ish. Yes, you deserve better because I say so – you deserve it because I do. And if you don’t dream of being bathed in light, you must be dragged to it. It’s the logical decision, and thus the altruistic decision – the two choices somehow always end up being the same. What is good for me is good for you is good for all. Love yourself more and we all will. It’s  almost mean in how much it makes sense.

The eleventh time I heard it, the phrase found me in a more bitter form, refusing to be lectured. Or nurtured.

Who wants a soulmate that makes sense?

You love one person and you’ve loved all of them. Adoration is never credited with the playwright’s name, and it is always me. She enters stage right, out of a taxi, Uber, bus, whichever. A quick introduction, a slower look into cautious eyes, an honest compliment. Our characters won’t mesh until a half-hour passes, when I make a joke that tells her I could one day care about something outside me. That’s when the love candle is lit. Our characters will foster it together, let it grow lukewarmer on the fuel we find at the bottom of our drinks. The stage will likely shift that night. Stagehands prop up a houseplant, a guitar, an inoffensive painting. My apartment. A bead of sweat falls onto the love-candle, and it doesn’t survive the night. She exits stage left come sunrise.

Do authors always use the same formula for writing a book? Maybe it depends on how many books they write. Bestsellers appeal to the lowest common denominator. But there is pride in doing what your contemporaries dream of. And currency.

Any one of those actress-soulmates could’ve made sense. But you love one person and you’ve loved them all. You sell one book and you’ve sold them all.

Unless they don’t love you.

he’s aspiring!

A girl enters stage right and immediately squints up at the bright lights. Annoyed. Immediately exits stage left. It draws the eyes! And confuses the crowd! The playwright forcibly goes from happy actor to disgruntled spectator. The love ignites without need of a spark, fed by only a single person this time. It’s greedier.

Yes, my soulmate would want to be with me. But is it better to be born loved, or to achieve it through great effort? I know my answer. I’ll happily feed the fire on my own. Isn’t that already more fun than the alternative? The production fails and the metaphor dies, and I get to aspire to someone’s love. It’s something to dream about, a cause to an effect, and I am affected. I’m already telling myself the love will survive the night, no matter how many beads of sweat fall from our conjoined form. It’s classic worship. God doesn’t ask for meagre faith either – it’s all or nothing. Right? Don’t all the love words have an element of haggard beggar energy? Adoration, desire, devotion, pining, yearning, the classics. Those words don’t scream ‘easy’. Yes, passion requires a proper intensity. A conflict, push and pull.

It seems like I’m telling you to fall in love with someone who is unimpressed by you. I am. It means more when the love is bargained for. There’s no story in love at first sight, no ego and no rush. The fire asks things of me before it truly burns and I answer in both spark and fuel, with little hopes and larger devotions. Yes, even its ashes must be earned. Earned, urned! Even a dying love is a memory to keep! What a nightmare to be taken as you are.

Nothing in my entire life has ever approached the feeling of something cold catching fire with its love for me.

- azeez

(thanks for reading :) let me know if you’d like to me to write about something!)