Intellectual Romanticism

Disclaimer: What follows is a seemingly less focused post. More like a revelation from within after a happy companionship (still reading) with a recently discovered brilliant book (Psychoanalysis in Tehran). The last such book was perhaps 40 Rules of Love. 

Intellectual Romanticism - what a pretty beautiful phrase. Or rather a heavy one. Either way, I love it, just like how few years back, I fell in love with the phrase "Plethora of Serendipity". The sound of it, the way its written, the way its said, I just absolutely, truly, deeply, madly fell for it. I used it, reused it, overused it. Like some confused kid, I was obsessed with it. Interestingly, I still am. However, the love now seems shared with the phrase "Intellectual Romanticism". 

I believe they are two of the most beautiful phrases in the world. We often love and attach ourselves to things/interests/people/places that seem to radiate our frequency. Something that answers the subtle yearning within us or perhaps something that reflects who we are or who we think we are. 

How boldly we express and declare our love then swings on the pendulum of possibilities to impossibilities.

Humans, it seems, have an inherent need to get addicted, to get attached and to feel. On the scale of similarity and intensity, there are often books and ideas that you instantly fall in love with. 

Yes, perhaps, Love at First Sight with A book or with an Idea. 

There are books you pick up and like. You judge them by their covers or the reviews and you fall prey. You spend sometime trying to read them but then you give up. You shut it and hide it somewhere deep down. Each day, you avoid glancing at it, guilty of not reading it. If the book's title comes up in some discussion, you avoid it or ignore it or master your guilt to act and pretend that you had finished the book. 

Then there are the kind of books which you pick up and proudly carry with yourself. Because the title seems so impressive. You feel proud of carrying it in public. You flaunt it around like your expensive new car. But then again, you hardly read it properly. You try because you so want to read it, because you feel that it is the kind of book, the type of book that you feel you should be. But Alas, you fail. However, given your love for it, you don't shun it away, You don't hide it behind all those books. You google its review, you google its synopsis. And then, when the time comes in the public, you put your expert opinion on the book out there. And you fall in love with yourself when you see yourself discussing the book so confidently. 

There is also the kind of book which truly matches your interest. However, it may not be what people like. It may even be less of wise in terms of fiction. You try avoiding this love. But ultimately give up at the hands of your interest and pick up what truly interests you. You read and you read and you read. You feel addicted to it. Its more like a timely affair. 

And finally, there are The Books. The Books are the kind that defines True Love. You don't go around looking for such books, you don't go around shopping for them specifically, you don't google them. They often just come to you. They stumble upon your path like a destined lover. You fall. You fall so subtly yet so strongly that even you're unable to realize. You don't become addicted to such books. But you start loving them. You become attached to them. They nurture you. They groom you. It is as if, they converse with you. The only way to describe this relationship with these kinds of book is to say, You feel you're in Love with them. And just like any True Love, it is impossible to express it in words. 

Strangely, our relationship with ourselves is so much like our relationship with the books. 

There is a part of us which we don't like. We'd rather live in denial than face this part of us. We happily cook up busy schedules; intricately weave beautiful reasoning to justify the non existence of this part. We feel guilty of this part of us. We hence ignore it. Just like that half read book which we couldn't finish. 

Then there is a part of us which we think we should be. A part of us which we want to flaunt around to others. A part of us that would attract everything we want back to us. A part of us that we know will earn us worldly satisfaction of many sorts. We try becoming that. We try becoming a part of us which is not us. We try accepting illusions and incorporating them as reality into our lives. We pretend to be who we are not. Just like we go pick up books that we wish we could really like reading. 

There is of course a part of us which is truly ourselves. Our natural selves. We often are very clear about this part. Because this is the existing Reality of us. However, out of the fear of potentially being judged stereotyped or abundant  by the world, we don't pay much attention to it, just fulfil its existence once in a while. Just like picking up the book that really interests us but never being proud to carry it around. 

Most importantly, there is a part of us which grooms us. Nurtures us. Teaches us to Love, to Feel, to Live. We don't seek it intentionally. It comes to us from within ourselves. There are times when outside world (other people/ideas) might help us Realize this part of us within ourselves. And such a feeling is perhaps called Love. Not because I know what Love is, but because I can't exactly find any other way to describe it. Just like a book which doesn't feel like addiction, obsession or affair. But like a book that nurtures you.