Heartbeater. Treatise on the Romantic
Walk up to the dealer, the green felt, the gamblers sitting around the table and ask, politely, “can I wager my heart?”
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I walk just like I’m carrying a hand grenade
It’s going
tick tick tick tick tick tick tick
She called me an Angel so I hopped up! Rushed to the bathroom to see if the black in my eyes had melted away and it hadn’t! Decided then… her judgement… hard to trust.
The prince of unrealistic expectations - despite being aware of this I’II never stop. Just as my predecessors.
The last time I felt like this was war.
This time: driving into the sunset. red wine out of cheap plastic. sensation flows from the heart. It moves into all that’s around. Life becomes More. Vibrant. Enjoyable. Addicting love drug. There are dark moods. Fatal glimpses, sure. But angry perspectives are washed out until only a a soft yellow light exist. This is an emotion I very much see. And one I very much must Allow to be experienced.
I grit my teeth while holding kittens. Try not to. Relax Winston. Turning off a smile shouldn’t be as easy as flipping a light switch but many times, I choose to turn the light switch on. Feel it all, man!
This is the romantic. He has an uncaged heart that
1. Was never caged. This is the most pure form. This type is vulnerable and naive and should be treated like a flower petal in a hurricane.
Or 2. He uncaged it - decides to - and consciously wants to walk with the tender layer of the organ exposed.
The romantics depression - should it seep into his lens - begins when he compares his dreams to reality and sees the latter isn’t close to touching utopian visions. Utopian, different then universally progressive idealism. He doesn’t care for every homeless to have a home or every immigrant to have safety. His war is personal. It’s a first character experience and every scene, event, moment is in constant conflict with How He Sees It In His Head.
Reality turns on the romantic because of this. As it should. He doesn’t take it as it is. He is dreaming of a better version of Reality and so, Reality, prideful beast that she is demands undivided attention! And when she doesn’t see appreciation, she flips on the distracted romantic. Turning reality into his self contorted maze of empty fantasy.
They exist in constant friction until like a solar eclipse the two - Reality and The Romantics Vision - overlap each other! This is a firework! Screaming angels chorus’s! An explosion of Perfect for the romantic.
This is also the beginning of the end for him, this is his drug. He’s seen behind the curtain. In those moments he feels that God is wrapped around him. Everything is perfect and holy and when the music Ends… it’s not anymore. The comedown. Drugs are a microcosm but the romantic is addicted without chance of salvation because the only ‘salvation’ is to lower the inner visions so that the underwhelming outside world is good enough.
You might as well ask him to slit his throat.
A dominant Romantic will experience intense negative feeling when he sees that reality doesn’t live up to It. Further, when he sees that even his powerful - fully aware and conscious attempts aren’t enough to bend reality into what His Visions show. This is when he must be delusional.
He must take the underwhelming reality, and the failed attempt to spark It, with a grain of salt. Notice, iterate. Manipulate the environment - move it forward until it’s how he sees. Again. Again. This is Expressionism.
He will find fulfillment not when reality is manipulated exactly as his vision shows, but when his efforts to exorcise his ideas into the world start bearing fruit. The size, color, shape of that fruit is unknown. Sure - he shoots for it to resemble his vision - but reality can surprise the Man willing to make effort. There may be a better version the romantic didn’t see at first. He must be Able to see this new path. This is a form of salvation that he must create. Living your life how you see it, that’s an artful war. It’s loud and blinding and yours to enjoy.
Passing oceanside shopping malls her side profile shields the setting sun. A view I could get used to, am used to, the view of her cheek lit by early morning sunlight shining through beige linen curtains.
I’ve seen this. A battlefield of bleeding hearts. Optimistic ears. 3,736 miles away but the exact latitude. Strange numbers on this cloudy day. Younger and a different man then. Consistents though, they exist and are: Sandy bottles of wine. Freckles. Dark hair and broken families.
Differences exist. Many. My house is on the blue side of the mountains but home has a speckled coat of paint and isn’t stuck to the ground. This is tested and historical and I remember a kiss in 2013 that one could now call ‘a seed.’ Blossoming in to not yet a piece of natural Art with vibrant petals but on its way… Like A young girl. Her back to the door frame going from the kitchen to the family room. Her mom with black ink pen. Marking her tallest mark yet. Not yet a grown woman but on her way. Each new tick upwards offering hope. Getting closer to something with no finish line. A reminder that the journey is the point because she smiles every time she puts her back to the door - the sweet spot is seeing growth on the journey, noticing memories, being an active part of love - trust - life - belief.
And I turn into a romantic when the glass is empty. He is a sentimentalist of the worst form but some things I notice:
- my fingernails aren’t bitten as low as they usually are.
- you can be side by side someone while feeling a 1,000 miles apart.
- you can watch someone look into your eyes and still feel unseen.
Better things I notice: a good nights sleeps and what was done during the daylight to earn it. Undivided attention from my friends. People that pick up the phone at 4am when I’m…
