Do you think if you write a story so intently that in creating your romantic ideal you’ll wish the story to blossom into reality … just not cherry blossom.
You can end up writing your life, a victim of self for filling prophecy. This is where romance can let us down, the illusion. The personification of our desires hardly stands up to what we expect or hope and when it doesn’t we question.
But I like the romance, the merging of desire and actuality, it can be pure enough as long as it doesn’t blind us. Those are the moments, when our vision is tainted, that we see what we think we want through a veil of red.
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