Notions of romance are as varied as the beings that are blessed by it.
While science has its own explanation, Carol Anne Duffy, a contemporary English poet, compares romance to an onion.
Notably a group of artists, who during the seventeenth century smashed tradition and trampled on established ideas, earnt themselves the lucid name of 'The Romantics'. These artisans were engaged in the honesty of self expression, and saw pleasure as the only truth.
By worshiping the natural world, the feminine divine, the enigmatic and the unclear the Romantics forged the way for mankind's persistent search for truth through art. Many of these Romantic poets and artists enjoyed heavy opium addictions, which they excused as methods to unlock the doors to the mystic and undefined. Their creative revolution was fueled by plants that lengthened the mind's leash, letting it roam further away from the demands of the body.
Many people have seen the glazed stare of a scag-head as they shuffle on the spot, on the corner, on the street. This image does not hark of romance or art. The same substance that evoked expressive genius within the Romantics has psychically crippled countless others.
If one cannot affect their inner environment, what control do you have? Ironically the ultimate control of one's mood, by the injection of a liquid that brings you to an emotional bliss unreachable in normal life, has the ultimate price tag attached... nothing will ever compare again. You lose control by the very act of grasping for it.
It's getting late, time to:
|Curl up with another lonely being|
|Kiss Marx goodnight|