< romantic experiment >
Qué si tenías la relación perfecta... y entonces, de pronto, ella rompe tu corazón, y todo cae abajo en pedazos. Ella te amó en tu peor, ella te tenía en tu mejor... y ahora, tus búsquedas desolated del uno mismo para la otra oportunidad para el rescate.
¿Pedirías una más ocasión?
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Everything that involves a modicum of passion sounds better in Spanish: consider Ricardo Montalban hawking the "Nativity Cross" on home TV shopping networks. Vicente Fox criticizing American policy on immigration and border control. That voice-over in brandy advertisements. Antonio Banderas. Yes, for all an online English-to-Spanish translator is worth (because Spanish is either infinitive or imperative, and I didn't take Spanish), the paragraph above is the spiel for "One More Chance," starring John Lloyd Cruz and Bea Alonzo. Oh yeah, I have my own "One More Chance" story. But heck, I don't look like John Lloyd.
Let me begin (well, that's a long introduction) by saying this: romance, not love, is all about chances. To me, there's no such thing as a "chance at love." In the first place, love is unconditional. Love is the nirvana of relationships: it is the perfect state where chance is not a factor. When it comes to love, you can't gamble on anything anymore because it is impossible to gamble. In conditions named rightly and aptly as "love," someone always looks out for you every time you roll the dice. You always win. "Chance" itself is a linguistic limitation: pardon my being a Platonist at this point, but for something as perfect as love, our words do not suffice.
Romance, on the other hand, is different: it is, for all intents and purposes, "pseudo-love." In Dr. Evil's terms, it is the margarine of love, the Diet Coke of love. It is a distortion of the genuineness of love. Thomas á Kempis calls love other than a love for God an imperfect one. I'm not a religious man, but he's right: because we are imperfect, everything we do - especially our relationships with other people - will always be imperfect.
As such, romance is all about chances. Romance, in the first place, is grounded on chance. It's called "falling" for a reason, that reason being that it is a chance - to be exact, a risk - taken. Romance is so distorted that you take a chance in trusting a person whom you are capable of trusting, you take a chance on something that is perfectly capable of being perfect. Romance metamorphoses to love: romance is not love.
The truth to the matter is that the number of chances you take when it comes to romance are chances of and for so many different things, not just a second shot at establishing a romantic relationship. Topping that list is pain. Even the most avowed of masochists will reconsider the kind of pain that there is in having a second (or any other ordinal) chance. Be it a betrayal, a falling-out, immaturity, or whatever causes the decay of a romantic relationship, the relationship will never become as whole as it is before the chance.
But I'm a hopeless (OK, hapless) romantic: because nobody's perfect, everyone's entitled to the imperfections that there are in taking second, third, fourth, fifth, whatever chances. It all depends on how many chances you are willing to take, of taking the chances that come with the chances. That is the spirit of chance.
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