Notes on Therese Mariette Rosos

Labels. Assurance. Relationships.

Do unsettling thoughts about these complicated concepts ultimately provoke you into thinking: what’s the worst that could happen? I, for one, can attest to that.

In hindsight, labeling a nuanced disposition that emerges unannounced between two people falling head over heels for each other is a myth. Friends? Not really. Lovers? Possibly. Strangers? Well, not anymore. The status quo: No matter the putative tags and terms of parallel relationships, certainty is barely running on a graveyard schedule.

When gambling on love, the tension of craving assurance is rooted in a longing for a grouned commitment. Until then, everything is a netherworld between you and your inamorata. Ergo, when the only certainty depends on when both parties will opt to level up rather than remain eye-candy status, the strife gets signifacantly overwhelming. Not to mention the expectations of descriptive labels, such as the infamous ‘real deal’ scenario. Despite all the lingering uncertainties, believe me when I say less drama goes hand in hand with less exclusiveness.

Contrary to the standards of setting an equilibrium of souls that accord, it’s usually a lot to ask, and a little too much to take in. When the elephant in the room asks, “Are we even a thing?” , anxiety and reluctance to fill the void of the lingering affirmation tend to dominate my consciousness immediately afterward. But before I can say knife, the omnipresent “whatifs,” insistent “what is,” and the volatile “what will be” haunt my current situation—leaving me with nothing but remorse, reflection, and worry. philosopher such as myself.

The unsettling thought shifts once more: Would settling a score really be worth the risk, considering the times I have drowned in a cup of whiskey and regret? Perhaps, maybe not.

Regardless of how sincere the other person appears in hopes of receiving a leap of faith, I grow dependent on “what-ifs” serving as vanguards of eventual mistakes. The trauma of gyrating in the same motion all over again, needless to say, suffocates me. In due course of contemplating these mis takes, “what if” turns into “what is”—serving as the affirmations of my inevitable questioning. The uncanny dilemma of it all, however, is how it concludes.

When nothing is assured, everything is quite possible. If playing safe means saving my sanity before everything reaches its denouement, then