The Romantic

 

The Romantic

She is a romantic. 

A romantic of the deepest kind. 

A romantic not just in love but in every essence of her being, every moment and minute of her life- the air she breathes scented with renaissance lavender fields and secret garden magnolia blooms. 

She decorates her world with freshly picked wild flowers in a vibrant spectrum of technicolor and loses herself in an imagination bred from a lifetime of reading books, the love stories, the tragedies, the great adventures. 

She disconnects from modern day humanity to immerse herself into ancient philosophy, the deepest of thoughts catalysed from professors, artists, scientists and inspired rebels locked in a time warp known as yesteryear.

Her heart is trapped in the intellect of history and the imagined future of tranquility, captioned by the music burring from record players collecting dust in hidden corners and songbirds from dense canopies of trees. 

She glides through life like a movie, a fairytale, floating in white linen gowns with sunbeams bouncing off of her skin. She dances to the silent songs and re-enactments in her subconscious as though they were mirages between the lengths of her fingers and souls of her feet. 

And her animals magnetise toward her like a princess from a fairytale, a menagerie of creatures great and small, under her spell of whimsy tumbling into a wonderland existence of multi species conversation and respectful adoration, without question or doubt. 

When she loves she loves in secret. She plays out the abundant masterpiece that is the novel of her mind. She paints the colour through the stages of infatuation; lustre and to ultimate love. She excites herself with monochrome snap shots in the gallery floating behind her eyelids, imagines the scenes from her most passionate film and composes moments and actions during slumber of her most intimate, daydreaming thoughts in exotic foreign lands, mountain top cabins, drift wood beach shacks, warehouse conversions, ivy covered cottages, grand old libraries, tiny bookstores and brick laid lofts.

When she kisses, she kisses slowly. She hears the flutter and flap of butterfly wings, she feels the wind against the tallest pampas grass in misty meadowy felids and the vibrations of a roaring steam train whooshing down her spine until the melody of serene musical elysian starts flooding her eardrums. 

Because she is a romantic. A romantic of the deepest kind.

Remember

Memories are the illustration of a life lived, regardless of how eventful or uneventful that life may have been. Both of which are subjective to each individual in their own set of circumstances. 

Some of those memories are so fearcely locked in the depth of our subconscious that they cease to exist as an image, a thought or even a sound, smell or feeling. They exist only in a darkened corner of the mind made up of space, time and enigma. 

We are taught to cherish so much of our existence, to have gratitude, to move forward, to live in the moment, to keep learning and to enjoy the journey; all the while being repetitively versed to "let go of the past." There is a lot of logic and reasoning to that sentiment - the most obvious being that if an individual becomes fixated on their own past, they will never progress, never overcome and never reconsolidate their life in a proactive, productive and meaningful way. The predisposed relationship between depression and individuals fixated with unchangeable past events is one that has been studied and proven thousands of times over. 

There is much to be said about learning from the past. As a society and as an individual. Past progression is the default setting for humanity, history and the evolution of the planet as a whole - an on going experiment of trial and error; in search of perceived perfection; which is continuously interchangeable.

The common denominator irrespective of the source of the past, is that ultimately - it is negative. We either need to move on from it, or learn from it - or in some cases simply just "accept it"; all of which have connotations that are far from positive. 

So, we forget.

We forget moments, we forget people, we forget lessons, we forget mistakes, we forget the cumulative experiences that may or may not have brought us extreme joy or the deepest darkest sadness. We forget regret and we forget hope from years gone by. We forget the idealistic, illustrious, exciting naivety and spontaneity of our youth.

In the process, or the quest, for a spotless mind - we undo and unravel the thread count that makes us who we are, who we were and the person we could continue to become. Instead, we start fresh and we remould our claywork to fit this moment. Not the past - perhaps the future, but most importantly; right here and right now; and we do it over and over again. But what is to be said about that deafeningly quiet but screeching loud dark, dusty corner of our minds that wrap our past up tight, safely, hidden from the outside world but flowing through the serotonin that silently fuels our minds, our hearts our existence everyday?

It is is all of the yesterdays that have given us our today. In a modern world that thrives off of nostalgia for a time that no longer exists; our recollections are both our demons and saviours. We need to allow those vivid, cathartic memories devour us; and help us remember what it is that brightens up our eyes, widens our smile, sends shivers down our spine whilst simultaneously staying safe, in the locked vault that is our past. You have the combination; know when to use it. Our moments in time exist; it is ok to revisit them.