Make no mistake – I am a born romantic.
But – and yes, there is a but – there is my history to be considered, these Things That Have Happened. I can’t deny them anymore than the moon’s ever-present pull on the sea. Nor should I, is what I think. These things have made me, built me up to be what I am. And I must remember them, lest I risk insanity – the repeating of behaviors I’ve been burned by in the past.
And this past, this is key. This past is what planted in me a gauge for this Romanticism: that is, Skepticism. And I love her. I do. Gently whispering warnings in my ear, she only means to keep me safe.
Not that I would say I believe in romanticism for its own sake. That gets a bit pretentious. Like holding your face in the shape of a smile long after what sparked the smile is gone – “After that, it’s just teeth.”
I do a silly thing. All things precious are, in some way, silly. I picture my heart as a garden. Not my literal heart that assigns blood to body parts, but my heart of hearts that, though not tangible, is as vital to me as any physical organ. I picture it as a garden with a border of grand, old, faded brick walls. Many lovely things grow here, and with the best of intentions. They all mean well.
I stroll through it in the sleepy splendor of the evenings, barefoot, arms folded, my chin held in one hand, considering closely.
And sometimes, certain things growing in my heart (take, in this instance, Skepticism) need a good trimming. Because virtue in any extreme inexplicably turns to vice. I picture myself in a light sundress, a pair of pruners in my gloved hands, venturing to tackle a part of me that I have let overgrow.
Because there is only so much room in a Heart Garden.
Time to calculate less. (Skeptic.) Time to risk more. (Romantic.)