It does a romantic no good to read a wonderfully written French romance in the company of Italian Opera.
What does it take, to feel that spark to write a true romance? Of the many things, love is the one topic that no author can ever produce with merely ink and no experience.
It does a romantic no good to read a wonderfully written French romance that she has never felt, in the company of Italian Opera that she doesn’t quite understand.
For it is in the nature of Romance to cause yearning, and Opera to cause anguish, especially when one doesn’t understand either.
A longing for something unfamiliar has a strange form, a hazy shape, one that dances only inches from your fingers, so close and yet too far. It makes your chest constrict, and a burn rise in your eyes that you do not want to acknowledge.
It does a romantic no good to read a wonderfully written French Romance that she has found but lost too early, in the company of Italian opera she doesn’t understand the words as much as she does the depth of feeling accompanying the mellifluous lyric.
It makes the air colder, and the room too small and the world outside too large, with something within her that wants to perish; if only it didn’t cause her to perish with it.
It is in the nature of those who have loved and lost, to hate with a passion the age old saying, and any person who dares say it to them.
No, it is not better to have loved and lost.
Because when it is gone, you realise that it has left you incomplete, and no other piece in the world fits in just as perfectly.
It is better to have not loved at all.
It does the romantic no good to hope that they may never love; it is folly, and the knowledge of the inevitable it is far worse a torture than a broken heart itself.
With the hopelessness than drifts through the misshapen pieces than make the romantic, like sunlight through the dormers of abandoned churches, comes the unfailing need to forever wander in search of completeness; made worse by the unflinching truth that it can never be.
The strands of heart warming and cruelly beautiful music will drive one to sin while the passionate and timelessly engraved words may drive one to desperation before.
No, it does no good for a romantic to watch a freshly patched heart be torn apart by memories or longing or loss; and it causes more pain to wrap them up in the gossamer layers of fantastical and yet wanton thoughts.
For it is a role of the romantic to be lost in an eternal loop of destruction and reconstruction, till perhaps there is nothing left to destroy, and lesser still to rebuild.
Till death do us part.
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