I have tagged 1 blog post with unrequited-love:
Love and Highways: A Dance in Desolation Amidst Winter's Chill
Whoever said that love makes the world go round, must have also meant that it puts a spin on your emotions, dizzies you into a haze of bittersweet misery. It dredges up feelings that, even in their deepest despair, hold a whisper of desperate euphoria. And true to form, a chorus of misery, cloaked in the dull throes of unrequited love, has been my grievous symphony in recent times.
Gazing out the train window into the bone-chilling 4 degrees emptiness, bare trees clawing at the sky in stark contrast, my mind drifts to the warmth a certain pair of eyes used to hold. Eyes that ensnared my racing pulse and cast it into the oblivion of a mesmerizing gaze. Now there's a distance, a chillier frost between glances that numbs even my stubborn persistence. A stone cold emptiness that mirrors the Oslo winter.
I can't help but smirk at the irony of it all. Having a crush, or more pertinently falling disastrously in love, bear uncanny similarities to the chaos that unfurls from infrastructure projects. Much like the aforementioned disarray caused by the ‘monster queues’ on the E39 highway in Bergen, an irksome disruption taking place in an otherwise orderly existence.
Being in love turns your being into a construction site, teeming with a confusing cacophony of emotions, with little promise of structured resolution. A maelstrom of hurdles, delays, and the madding rush of meeting fleeting deadlines. But also, a glimpse of what could be, beyond the rubble, the potential of a love story worthy of the pandemonium it caused.
Alas, like the temporary increase in public transport use and cycling, the harsh realities wash over the initial naivete. A fleeting burst of hope, perhaps even a healthy habit sprung from the catastrophe. But the bleak winter calls for a cold hard reassessment of the damages one's heart has sustained. With time, the incessant beating of it all softens into a monotonous hum, an acceptance of the newfound quiet.
Herein lies the paradox; is it the mere chaos that entices us or a glimpse of a beautiful resolution that keeps us on this tumultuous journey? This, the riddle of riddles, encapsulates to the fullest the misery that tags along with the game of love, much like an unscheduled construction site threatening an otherwise tranquil existence.
Those in charge of both, hearts and highways, would hurry on with equal recklessness, brokering deals with misery and commuter madness alike. Both loom large on the horizon – the love that was and the snarls of the E39 that will be. For me, residing in this dismal territory, the train pressing onwards through the biting cold is awfully fitting.
There's a certain amicable defiance in carrying this misery, akin to marching in the open in 4-degree weather. With ungloved hands, unscarved neck, and unbooted feet, taunting the biting winds with your naivety. Perhaps it's madness, or a silently waged rebellion against an unjust world. But then, that's love, isn't it? A wildly dance amidst the ruins, a hopeful candle in a void. All parts confusion, mostly misery, but always, always, an indomitable spirit refusing to snuff out.