Things That Only Matter Because I said So

“Sometimes, if you’re lucky, there will be a tree outside your bedroom window. It is very important to romanticize this tree as much as possible.”

There. That’s it. That’s the thesis statement of my entire life.

Romanticize the tree. Romanticize the chipped mug. Romanticize the silence between two songs. Romanticize the walk to the grocery store like you’re the misunderstood protagonist in a French film who just realized something very important about love. Romanticize the fact that you’re alive and slightly confused.

I think we forget that we’re allowed to live like that. That we’re allowed to choose wonder. No one’s going to stop you on the street and say, “Excuse me, ma’am, are you pretending your bus ride is from a 1960s Italian neorealist film?” Good. Let them try.

Life is short and mostly ridiculous. You might as well make it beautiful.

I once saw a woman on the train wearing a coat two sizes too big, scribbling something in the margins of a book, and I thought, yes, she gets it. You don’t just read the book. You live inside the book. You let the book bleed into your real life and then write yourself into the next chapter. And maybe the protagonist is confused, and a little sad, but she keeps a seashell in her coat pocket, just to remind her of home.

Romanticizing life means making eye contact with the moon. It means giving your plants names and talking to them. It means watching dust float through a sunbeam and thinking, wow, this is holy.

Romanticizing life is rebellion. It’s saying, I will not let this world flatten me into numbers, deadlines, or likes. I will give meaning to meaningless things. I will pretend this streetlight blinking is a message from the universe. I will believe that the cashier who suddenly started wearing eyeliner has fallen in love. I will assign narratives to strangers at cafés. I will believe, with no good reason, that something extraordinary is about to happen.

The truth is, this world doesn’t need more people who are “realistic.” We’ve tried realism. It’s stressful and makes your back hurt. What we need are people who will stop in the middle of the street because the clouds look too beautiful. People who say, “Look at the way the light hits that building. Doesn’t it look like it’s blushing?”

There’s a kind of quiet power in that.

I’ve started treating my life like it’s full of soft spells. My nightdress is enchanted. The spoon I stir my tea with is basically a wand. The train delay is a plot twist. My sadness is a monologue. And the tree outside my window is definitely some kind of guardian.

So here’s my little invitation to you:

Make your bed like you’re tucking in someone tender (yes, a teddy bear counts). Pour your coffee like it’s a love letter. Let the wind flirt with your hair. When you cry, cry like the sky is jealous of your rain. And when something silly makes you happy, like seeing a pigeon strut like it owns the street, let it.

That’s how we survive this world. That’s how we reclaim it.

Romanticize the tree. Romanticize the life that insists on blooming around it. Romanticize the fact that you get to witness this very moment, because it won’t come back. And isn’t that kind of tragic? And kind of wonderful?

Let it all be lore, fabricated, embellished, unnecessary… but yours.

Let it all be love, the irrational kind that doesn’t ask for meaning, only attention.

Because if you don’t romanticize it, you risk forgetting it ever mattered. So pick your poison.