| We spend our lives suffocating in romantic ideals, struggling in quicksand of our own making. In the name of romanticism we thrash about seeking clichéd visions of perfect mates. The more we struggle the deeper we sink, pulled under by the gravity of waking from hopeless, hapless daydreams of beautiful partners with picture perfect traits. Left by the wayside are poor unfortunates that do not measure up with these ideals those that in our eyes are fatally flawed plagued with shortcomings and imperfections. Their meagre hearts and souls are discarded and ground under our unsympathetic heels, outcasts through no fault of their own and supposedly undeserved of our affections. We celebrate a trite apparition of love, an immaculate perception of adoration and its trappings, an endless hazy summer of mutual desire. The cold, harsh reality is ignored where untainted love is a rare exception. It is a winter of desolation where obsession plunges into a loveless mire. This oasis of faultless love is merely a mirage propagated by the starry-eyed. We stumble like lost souls in the desert, frantically searching for salvation and though some are spared, many are bereft of such love, dignity and pride. Self-condemned to wander like nomads in needy, unattractive desperation. |