Diary of A Lover Girl - Sherry Ning

I can’t stand our mechanical times of Find My Friends and Oura rings. We’ve smothered the magic out of love with hygienic rationality and therapy-speak. Love is only powerful when it is magical. You know what therapy lacks? It lacks that invisible plasma of energy that feels like desire or longing. It lacks serendipity and coincidence. It lacks soul. It lacks yearning. It lacks happy accidents that bring people together for a shared lifetime. I don’t want clinical love. I want the irrational, aching, Flaubertian love that novels are made out of it. I want Botticellian romance, Venusian passion, and Proustian tenderness. I want the kind of love expressed in Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloë Suite No. 2, Dickinson’s Wild Nights – Wild Nights!, and Klimt’s The Kiss. (Keep the Ravel playing as you read the rest.) I want to live life at a biblical magnitude. I want memories that last in my mind like the crenulated imprint left by the band of my skirt, only to be discovered before a shower in the ove

I can’t stand our mechanical times of Find My Friends and Oura rings. We’ve smothered the magic out of love with hygienic rationality and therapy-speak. Love is only powerful when it is magical. You know what therapy lacks? It lacks that invisible plasma of energy that feels like desire or longing. It lacks serendipity and coincidence. It lacks soul. It lacks yearning. It lacks happy accidents that bring people together for a shared lifetime. I don’t want clinical love. I want the irrational, aching, Flaubertian love that novels are made out of it. I want Botticellian romance, Venusian passion