"Troubler"

I have begun to realize that there are certain kinds of men that get a little "troubled" by me. On the French meeting site where I chat away the hours of the weekend spent at my boring second job, even without actually chatting with me, there are men who have their foundations a little rocked by being attracted to the likes of me. Today I came home to a message from a nice-looking young man in the Parisian area, who said, "I wanted to let you know that even though I can tell we are not on the same wavelength (you seem to be one of those modern women who want to have plenty of aventures and a full life), I had to write you to tell you that you have "troubled" me." He went on to explain that although I seemed like a really "great person" he wished me luck because the kind of life I have chosen is a hard one.

Where do I start?

First off, I must explain that "troubler" in French in this instance is more equivalent to "disturb in a pleasing way." And I think that is more to the point of what he was expressing. This young man of 26 finds himself attracted to my photo (I am assuming it is what made him click on my profile in the first place) and by my written profile (which talks mostly about being transferred to Paris with my job and how that is a dream come true, about some of my passions and other dreams, none of which involve a man) in spite of himself and his principles. I assume that he makes the assertion that I am a "modern" woman who is not looking to "settle down" because of the dreams and desires mentioned, there is not one to find "my other half" my "media naranja" my "soul mate." Most men who are attracted to me in spite of themselves and disturbed by this completely miss the sentence in my profile (or in real life miss my revelation) acknowledging my good fortune to have felt and lived deep love.

To love and have been loved back, passionately, wholly and selflessly, is something I am grateful to have experienced. It makes the loss of it easier to bear, and the move to Paris feel less like running away and more like the right path to pursue. I loved Paris before I loved him; I love Paris, and him, still.

My love for Paris, irrational, sparked at an early age, and almost completely without explanation, is much like my love for him. Those who would scoff at the cliché, the naiveté, the very sweetness of loving such a thing as Paris, for which I could have no true understanding, whose depths, jagged edges, and unpredictable ways I could surely not comprehend, are no doubt cut of the same cloth as those who would tut-tut me and look at me with something resembling pity, thinking "Poor thing, she is still not over him."

Love, for Paris or for him, or for little hardcover books, for that matter, need not make sense to anyone but he or she who loves. Love, like hope, is irrational. It exists entirely outside of circumstance, logic and reason.

Why do those who have known nothing but conflict, suffering and misery, have hope? Why do those who have loved and lost love still?