There are three ways to solve this riddle, and apparently I was only able to figure out the first two: Yes and No. If curiosity killed the cat, then quick-wit sure fucked me up. Questions with countable and firm answers are usually the ones that are raised to ask and reassure ourselves, because we already know what the response would be. In fact it is the open-ended questions that limit us and bring us to realize how thinking outside the box is such a huge struggle to untangle.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
It's going to be August in two days and I've already got my heart broken twice within this Summer. My nails painted hot and cold, changing colors way too often, I've never been in a more rapid wave motion of feelings. Someone once said to me, expect the unexpected, just like what I quoted in one of the articles I've written, from Mary Oliver, "Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable." Taking whatever that comes your way, solving them with whatever you have now, in order to worry less and to live in the moment. Now that I've been living with this attitude for a while, the only thing I grasped is that by this you can have as much fun from it as it lasts, but when it's over, man is it over. And you can't blame anyone else for this because it was you who expected the unexpected to come and go without warning. The chicken crossed the road to get to the other side. The other side, on the literal level, as we all know, is to reach the opposite side of the road. On the symbolic level, it means to end its own life. Why did the chicken cross the road and why did I cross the line? Every story has a beginning, middle, and an end. The story and the ending are both inevitable, and the only parts we can really control are the beginning and the middle, so sometimes I tend to delay the start and sometimes I choose to sabotage the middle part in order to dash to the end. As you can see, I am in deep regret now, as I should have just delayed the start instead of crossing the line.
How many hopeless romantics does it take to change a light bulb?
There are two types of hopeless romantics - the ones that idealize someone so they can love them in their perfect form, and the ones that romanticize someone's flaws and love them in their most human state. I've never loved anything that's perfect. And he's not perfect or gorgeous in any known measurement. He looked like art. Art isn't meant to be pretty - it's supposed to make you feel something when you look at it. I've met too many people who wear a Rolex on their wrists and they're not rich, people who take buses but can throw a hundred-dollar note into the beggar's container without hesitation. Humans never look like who they are. It only takes one hopeless romantic to change a light bulb - one is enough to take it out and screw it up. There are no ultimate villains in the world, and this is how it ruined the hopeless romantic. That kid that bullied you in elementary school was beaten up by his dad every night. The man who was rude to the waiter just met his ex-wife on the street looking happier than ever holding hands with her fiancé. He who jabbed shattered pieces at your heart was holding a handful of fragments of his own. And this is why the hopeless romantic is in ruins because she saw the human side to every ruthless bastard. And because she knows the devil was once an angel too.
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
Lately I've been thinking a lot about the connections between religion and patriotism and love. These three things are often glorified in movies because they are faith in its purist form - believing in something much bigger than what we can imagine, without doubts, no second-guessing, not asking for anything in return. That's the beauty of it. When he started giving me a part of himself, I knew he was going to take them right back. The half-emptied glass he drank from, mouth-to-mouth as if he imagined it was someone. I am a sinner and he looks like an angel with a puff of smoke. I am an atheist, am also not a die-hard fan of my own country. And I definitely don't know love. The bruises on my knees were not from falling. Nor praying. They say only the good die young. Thank God I'm incredibly awful (irony intended). I'm greedy and selfish. So which came first? The feeling of being loved or love itself? I believe that either one is another's reliance and eternal return - they keep giving and feeding each other endlessly. Religion and patriotism and love are difficult for me to fathom because I am an awfully greedy person that needs something in return. But don't judge me just because I sin differently from you. He's the one who kissed his knuckles before punching me.
How many licks does it take to get to the center of the lollipop? Why is six afraid of seven? What did the pig say at the beach on a hot Summer day? Did you hear the joke about the pencil? Knock knock, the punch lines are coming but the joke's on me.
So, if I fell in love and there's no one to know it, did I feel anything at all?
It doesn't really matter. Because you've already asked the question.
