Romantic

Im starting to realize that I am not, in fact, a romantic. Not even close. The worst part about it is that no matter how hard I try, I will never be. Romantics write books, paint pictures of decay and beauty, selflessly recite sonnets in front of crowds to their love, and propose with such extravagance, that the local news gains a fluff piece to fill time betwixt informing the masses of shootings and food recalls.

I'm starting to realize that I am not, in fact, a romantic, due to the arrogant tone of self preservation. I dont like putting myself out there for all to see and criticize, I do this for my closest friends only in a subconcious effort to let them know how much they mean to me. I dont like opening up my soul for the inevitable possibility that it will be taken advantage of, (which in and of itself is a travesty, as this is the one personal effect that we are all born and die with but have no control of.) I just dont dont like it when everything I am is wadded up, and thrown into the trash without any regard or respect for what it took to get that out.

I'm starting to realize that I am not, in fact, a romantic, but instead one who takes time to appriciate the good feeling that I get, when one becomes the focus of my extroversion. A defense mechanism that I've found to be imparitive to my sanity, has been to recite, "Without the bitter, the sweet aint as sweet" repeatedly to myself when waters get choppy. I know I 'm not spoon feeding myself bullshit to distract from the current situation because as I reflect on past encounters, I find that no matter what it was; good, bad, hurtfull, fearfull, etc. that the bitter and sweet truely do taste better when youve recently sampled the opposite. A romantic person would have the courage to go all in as opposed to sticking a foot in the pool to see what feelings the water inspires.

I'm starting to realize that I am not, in fact, a romantic because in my current situation, as my dreams are starting to be taken hostage by one who's smile haunts, voice soothes, touch invigorates, and company breathes air into a dying fire, I retrospectively focus on what she does to me, not what I for her. Obsessed with the idea that "Without the bitter, the sweet aint as sweet" as it relates to me, not her. Call it selfishness or blame it on the fact that I am an only child, I enjoy riding this ride of neck-bending steep climbs, and high velocity-heart sinking drops. Its the ultimate hot shower on cold skin. Its the decision to live my life, rather than simply float through it. Regrettably, the focus of analogy is on me, not her.

I'm starting to realize that I am not, in fact, a romantic because a true romantic has no ejection seat, no back up plan, no "in case of emergency, Pull Here" lever. A true romantic leaves no room for failure and rides the bomb to impact and trigger explosions, that although devastating, are one of the most spectacular things the writers eyes have ever witnessed. Instead I will fall to the ground safely, allowing for reflection and thought of the avoided catastrophe. A romantic has the spiritual armor to live to tell about it, and I have yet to acquire such a device.

I wish to someday be a romantic, but as for now I think im too selfish to actually buy the pants. Ill try em on, admire their cut and how they fall on my legs, look in the mirror for an hour and slowly become comfortable with myself and how I look in them, but Im not in a position to buy.

This is how I know I am not, in fact, a romantic yet.