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May
12
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Am I the last romantic? This is a particularly tricky question for me. I recollect the times when love looked more pure and diaphanous. A boy saw a girl, he was fond of her, and she grinned shamefaced at him, giving him hope. Wish was fed by hope, and time was the ideal cook for a romantic love recipe. It all continued with relaxed thoughts at night, while having a look at the stars and making wishes, sweet love wishes. Days were passing; the boy can’t get his thoughts back on the track, charmed by his pretty princess.
Another glance, a couple of days after, would keep the fire burning, till the boy can’t take it anymore, and moves to the following step: a romantic poem and roses, perhaps even chocolate candy. I am not going to exaggerate this, by inserting a balcony in this act. But let’s fess up; those were the trusty days of love and poetry. The media is always showing us more violence and sex, pushing love away from our lives, replacing it only with wish. Now ladies are more interested of the deposit account and limousine the boy drives, and possibly would take poetry and candy as an offence or as trivial ; they might much rather a dear scent or necklace.
The boy, on the other hand, doesn’t have that shiver any more in his voice; he is a stable person that should not unleash his absence of confidence. He is driving his expensive car, dressed up after the newest fashions, scented and everything, with shades to give him a better perspective.
He is going to her home, gives a horn and then takes his partner to the costliest places to inspire her. And he almost certainly succeeds in most of the times. Well, I am extraordinarily sorry, but I’m one of the fellows who will not give into this new age love”. I stick with the poetic love that used to be at one time, the terminal romantic.
You may contradict me if you like, everyone’s free to have an opinion, but I remain the last Mohican stuck to the concept that love and poetry come together as a blessing, and should not be ripped to shreds.