I have a tendency to romanticize things. While this can be fun, I sometimes take it beyond what is probably advisable. For example, it's likely not a good thing when you catch yourself muttering the following while refilling your morning cup of tea:

"Even if his sexual appetites are obviously complementary to yours, seeing as he chosen being with someone else, the fact that you gaze at his picture and thinking of him all day long  doesn't necessarily mean he is, in fact your soul-mate. Clearly, if he was your cosmic match your forehead is the one he kissed good night right now."


or,

"Just because his poetry mentions a person with dark hair and dark eyes doesn't necessarily mean that he's writing about you."


or,

"Look, chances are, you're never going to run into him in first class on the way to Montreux, because vampires don't require trains for domestic travel."


But, the thing is, not all romantic extrapolation remain firmly anchored in the imagination. Somehow, harmless curiosity over a blue hand impression on a bald head ultimately turned into a sentry of curved pine trees, the foaming grin of the Atlantic, and the quite, loving creak of a porch swing. I've learned that there are some things that cannot be overly-romanticized, that my brain is inherently limited by what I know, and therefore, is unable to architect the complex system of synaptic bursts  and transmissions that lit up like blood oranges when we first kissed, when we first fucked and when we first loved.

So i wonder, is it all right for me to think on how the calla lilies will blaze against the sand?