Might as well start off the way I came in
Apr. 1st, 2006 11:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thelostmaximoffFrom time to time, I will post things on here that are not fics but are original pieces of writing. They're going to be personal. I'm only going to do it when I feel the need to because most often they will be sad/mopey and I don't like being self-indulgent. However, I like this one so here we go.
Romanticism
People have accused him of many things. They’ve accused him of being a dreamer, an idealist to the core. People have accused him of being heartless and cold. People have accused him of many things and most of the time he pays them no mind. Why would he bother to read his own reviews? But sometimes people accuse him of not having a romantic bone in his body. They speak to him about a lost art, a dying art, and they tout it as if it possessed such great merit. He used to be right up there with them, speaking so eloquently about the lost art of romance. He was a passionate boy full of a fire that he thought was undying.
People say that romance is dead and sometimes he’s honestly inclined to believe them. More over, he’s honestly inclined to think it’s better that romance is dead. People talk of chivalry like it’s sexism and courtly love as if it’s simply a device used to mask feelings of lust. He used to vehemently deny all this, still clinging to his notions that romance was alive and that being romantic was the only way to truly live. He has decided now that perhaps he was wrong. Because you see, even if he still believes in romance the rest of the world still won’t. Romance involves two people. Where is the girl to compliment him? He wonders this, still trudging onward through the blinding snow and stinging cold that marks this world. He trudges onward in search of warmth, in search of love.
All his efforts at romance fail. His soul poured onto a piece of paper is romantic. The flowing words that cascade from his lips, his mind, his soul, are romantic. The scenes he paints of first kisses on a roof or of heartfelt confessions whispered in the dead of night are romantic. He wrote about “her” before he even knew “her”. Isn’t that romantic enough for any woman? They are his dreams, his hopes, his blood and spirit poured forth in such a way as to make any girl swoon and pine for him. They say romance is dead. He artificially sustained it and still to this day he wishes he could. But romance never guaranteed love in return. The first kisses on quiet, starlit nights were never returned. The heartfelt confessions whispered softly through tears never escaped the lips of those he longed for. Romance never guaranteed there would be love in return. Sometimes pouring your heart out just isn’t enough.
It was then that he learned a different type of romance, a different way of being romantic. He learned Romanticism, the art of frustration, frustration when one compares the way things are to the way they should be. Does being a Romantic still make him romantic? He wonders this as he continues to pour forth all the contents of his battered and weary soul, a soul still striving to find something that he doesn’t even know still exists. They say that romance is dead but he artificially sustained it. Someone forgot to let him know that it artificially sustained him too. They say that’s what dreams do. Please tell me what happens when the dream is deferred? Perhaps dreams were never meant to come true in the first place. Perhaps we are foolish to try.
Dreams, love, romance, and passion. He had these things once and still does even if they are cracked and bleeding. But dreams never guaranteed a happy life. Love never guaranteed a return. Romance and passion never guaranteed love. He knows these things now because they have been drilled into his head. He did not fail the ideals, the ideals failed him. What happens to a dream deferred is that it dries up and crumbles. You can try hanging onto it but little pieces come off and are scattered to the wind. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. Am I a good Romantic now?
They accuse him of many things and he just takes it with a smile because he knows they’re wrong. But sometimes they’re occasionally right. Maybe he doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body but it’s only because it got broken and he had to surgically remove it before it threatened to kill him. But he’s got a Romantic bone now, got a whole damn body full of them. They say that romance is dead. He just takes it with a smile because he knows they could be right.
Romanticism
People have accused him of many things. They’ve accused him of being a dreamer, an idealist to the core. People have accused him of being heartless and cold. People have accused him of many things and most of the time he pays them no mind. Why would he bother to read his own reviews? But sometimes people accuse him of not having a romantic bone in his body. They speak to him about a lost art, a dying art, and they tout it as if it possessed such great merit. He used to be right up there with them, speaking so eloquently about the lost art of romance. He was a passionate boy full of a fire that he thought was undying.
People say that romance is dead and sometimes he’s honestly inclined to believe them. More over, he’s honestly inclined to think it’s better that romance is dead. People talk of chivalry like it’s sexism and courtly love as if it’s simply a device used to mask feelings of lust. He used to vehemently deny all this, still clinging to his notions that romance was alive and that being romantic was the only way to truly live. He has decided now that perhaps he was wrong. Because you see, even if he still believes in romance the rest of the world still won’t. Romance involves two people. Where is the girl to compliment him? He wonders this, still trudging onward through the blinding snow and stinging cold that marks this world. He trudges onward in search of warmth, in search of love.
All his efforts at romance fail. His soul poured onto a piece of paper is romantic. The flowing words that cascade from his lips, his mind, his soul, are romantic. The scenes he paints of first kisses on a roof or of heartfelt confessions whispered in the dead of night are romantic. He wrote about “her” before he even knew “her”. Isn’t that romantic enough for any woman? They are his dreams, his hopes, his blood and spirit poured forth in such a way as to make any girl swoon and pine for him. They say romance is dead. He artificially sustained it and still to this day he wishes he could. But romance never guaranteed love in return. The first kisses on quiet, starlit nights were never returned. The heartfelt confessions whispered softly through tears never escaped the lips of those he longed for. Romance never guaranteed there would be love in return. Sometimes pouring your heart out just isn’t enough.
It was then that he learned a different type of romance, a different way of being romantic. He learned Romanticism, the art of frustration, frustration when one compares the way things are to the way they should be. Does being a Romantic still make him romantic? He wonders this as he continues to pour forth all the contents of his battered and weary soul, a soul still striving to find something that he doesn’t even know still exists. They say that romance is dead but he artificially sustained it. Someone forgot to let him know that it artificially sustained him too. They say that’s what dreams do. Please tell me what happens when the dream is deferred? Perhaps dreams were never meant to come true in the first place. Perhaps we are foolish to try.
Dreams, love, romance, and passion. He had these things once and still does even if they are cracked and bleeding. But dreams never guaranteed a happy life. Love never guaranteed a return. Romance and passion never guaranteed love. He knows these things now because they have been drilled into his head. He did not fail the ideals, the ideals failed him. What happens to a dream deferred is that it dries up and crumbles. You can try hanging onto it but little pieces come off and are scattered to the wind. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. Am I a good Romantic now?
They accuse him of many things and he just takes it with a smile because he knows they’re wrong. But sometimes they’re occasionally right. Maybe he doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body but it’s only because it got broken and he had to surgically remove it before it threatened to kill him. But he’s got a Romantic bone now, got a whole damn body full of them. They say that romance is dead. He just takes it with a smile because he knows they could be right.
