Romance

I've always responded very well to Romance. Not romance but Romance, capital R, no less. And I don't mean surface Romance sundries such as flowers and love songs. I scoff at the “Romance” put forth by John Mayer, Celine Dion and Sophie Kinsella. My Romance is a much more brooding kind, one that exists in your bones it runs so deep.

Romanticism, by definition, was a literary movement that took place between 1780 and 1848. Some of its most prolific writers were as follows: Burns, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelly, Byron, Keats and the Bronte sisters. It is a difficult concept to define, because, much like its name suggests, it resists the urge to be defined, to be corralled or controlled. It thrives on uncertainty, the indefinite, the boundless. Romantic writers eschewed balance and order while favoring the value of spontaneity, wonder and emotional self-expression, often at dire costs. They did not identify with social order, the “man”, if you will, and as such their writings were rife with suffering, emotional pain and an “us against them” mentality.

Well.

Anyone who has ever been head over heels in love can certainly attest to the fact that you and your beloved are one united against the world. The depth and soul of your love knows no limits, resists definition, keeps evil at bay, turns back tides, parts seas and walks on water. In short, divine providence now resides in your very being. This love, akin to Godliness, (excuse me, dear Christians, for such blasphemy) is the church you now worship.

I have come to believe, however, that what I respond to is not Romance but the pain that comes with it. The yearning, the heartbreak, the pain and the horror, the horror. You see, for someone who identifies so strongly with something so universally understood and sought after, there has been very little Romance in my short life.

There has, however, been a fair amount of pain. Even Pain, if you will.

The sadder the song, the more heartbreaking the film, the more tragic the tale, the more I respond. A girlfriend of mine pointed this out to me the other day, posed more as a question than an observation. Why do I flock to these tales of woe, these heartbreaking ballads?

I think I know the answer. I think these purveyors of pain have somehow tapped into a part of my soul as yet untouched by another human being. In the absence of Love (notice the capital “L”) I have allowed for melodies and prose. And it is not enough.

Let me clarify. I have had my fair share of love. I am showered with it daily from more sources than I can even count. I am not even sure I can count that high to begin with such is my lucky lot in life. Alliterations aside, I am well aware of the pure and honest love offered to me by so many in my life. But what for Romance? Or Love, for that matter?

I remain an optimist. A wealth of untapped joy resides within me, spigot in hand, at the ready. I am undeterred by space or time, preferring to bend the continuum to my will. I believe there is no age, shape or form to life’s most simple goal: to love and be loved. Or Loved.