Taking a class centered on analyzing love in literature has made me realize that I may possibly be single forever.
For as long as I can remember, I have possessed the odd ability to suppress my emotions. Not in a psycho-goes-on-murder-rampage way, but more of a that-sucks-but-oh-well way. I don’t know if it is because I subconsciously blot everything out or if I was just born with an extremely laidback attitude. Either way, my life is unbelievably peaceful compared to the drama of others.
When I receive a bad grade, I get over it. When I feel angry, I get over it. In fact, I haven’t shed a tear in more than two years. Therefore, it is surprising when I read romantic literature that there are so many different types and degrees of love and affection.
For the class, I have had to read pieces talking about the convergence of love and religion, the merits of passion and compassion and the paradox of suffering and joy. As a logical person, it is difficult for me to merge these contrasting ideas, much less understand the feelings behind them.
The class is predominantly discussion-based, meaning that students are the ones speaking most of the time. The professor will sometimes ask a question or pose a topic, but mostly she hangs back and lets the conversation naturally progress. Participation makes up a good part of our grade.
Surprisingly, my peers love to talk about love. They compete to tell the best love story, fight over whether love only involves two people and share interpretations of heartbreak. It is fascinating to hear how everyone understands and experiences love differently in their lives.
For now I like to sit back and enjoy the love stories of my fellow college students, occasionally nodding in agreement or gasping dramatically. Learning about love is a completely new and confusing experience, but I feel as though it will be one of the most insightful studies I will ever complete.