I am a romantic.
There, I said it.
Glad we got that out of the way.
Being romantic means ‘characterized by, or suggestive of an idealized view of reality’.
Or ‘conducive to or characterized by the expression of love’.
I like them both.
(Funny how ‘the expression of love’ gets close to ‘an idealized view of reality’, by the way.)
Most of my life has felt like I was in a movie.
A lot of deep drama and sadness, many black alcohol and depressions induced years, and some relationships that were sweetly Hollywood-inspired in the beginning, but eventually turned into obsessively dependent, raging shitstorms.
I hear music when it’s not there, like a hidden soundtrack.
I love daydreaming, and if it was something people got paid for, I’d be a billionaire.
While in the forest, I always hope that a bird will land on my hand and tell me a secret.
And I tend to spice up my memories, as if life itself is just a little too dull and average, and needs some tweaking.
It’s not really lying, more a form of adjustment.
As a romantic I see storylines and plots everywhere, and I deeply believe in the power of serendipity.
Life is not just a random event: we’re here to learn and do stuff.
Although I’ve never seen them, I don’t mind the idea of angels helping out.
The romantic is in love with his or version of life, and I like to think that we accommodate the world with a thin, subtle layer of magic for everyone to enjoy.
This existence, this colorful and deeply engaging experience, has meaning.
And if it hasn’t (who really knows?), I embrace the fact that I can believe in it anyway.
And maybe the meaning of life is that you can give it meaning.
Did I tell you I love life?
So next time you see a guy with a modest beard standing at the side of the road, staring at a field of purple and pink and red and orange flowers with glittering eyes, it’s probably me.
Listen for violins.