I love romance. I mean, truly, who would expect that? Yet those who truly got to see a part of me, saw me as A hopeless romantic. Yet what is it all about, what draws me to the stories, poetry, music and movies? The eyes bestowing the universe. The belief of an always and forever after. The butterflies that in turn reveal the garden. Our missing piece.
Yet now, my best friend noticed a switch. Tales of such marvels that held me, seem to be admired but not encompassing my being. I believe in love but one indwelling with sacrifice, choice, commitment. Not a sense of feelings where it all ends in tragedy. Not pleasure masked by urges that enslave us to lust or greed. And he spoke to me, reminding me not to be scared of love as my past revealed solitude or loss. Scarred by repeating interests of my own ego and issues I needed to fix.
Love is truly beautiful. A never ending hold that binds yet is not limited by pieces we call souls. Two coming as one to rejoice in imperfections and running to meet life’s end. Not established by “goals” or captivated by dreams, living in fantasy. So then to what position have I undertaken? The question asked with sincerity, yet my answer, my own. Let love be given and in return, I seek it not for my own intentions, let what is given be filled and in being loved, be my greatest reward.
Though I rest with a heart made anew let not my focus be in another, yet if they arrive may my past present that I shall uphold my truth for all tomorrows. A hopeful romantic.