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.
