Long ago, when the word “romantic” first came into my vocabulary, I thought it meant candles and slow dances and rose petals. Later on, when it was joined with the word “hopeless,” I associated it with Hollywood endings and poetry–a Cyrano de Bergerac quality that I most certainly didn’t ascribe to. Forever damning excessive girliness, I was never to be called a romantic.
But in recent years as I’ve come to understand the greater meaning of the word, it’s time to admit that my high school self was wrong and I am, in fact, a romantic.
By that I mean that I like the idea of something more than I like the thing itself. It’s surely a self-destructive thought process, but how boring it would be to wait for reality to finally make it’s way into my life. I prefer to spin the unknown into fantasies and dreams. It is just as painful to deny myself the pleasure of imagination as it is for the truth to destroy what my imagination has conjured up. At least my way, at the end of the day some pleasure is reaped.
I suppose the only armor I have is to remember that my fantasies often remain only that. The fall is quicker if I already know it’s coming.