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It occurred to me that romanticism dies the second we accept reality.

To live in this world where idealism is raw fantasy could be the end of you. Some say, it could turn out to be sheer blindness; the will to only give in to apathy. I disagree. Like I do much too often.

What is this will to give in to hopelessness when all you have to hold on to is the truer root of all that is but a fantasy? The all-knowing share of your being that denies a kind of reality only meant to drag you to the abyss of all that you fear.

I walk these streets and I hear its sounds. The sun burns the thin and pale surface of my flesh with fierce cruelty. I accept it like I did once, when I first learned to let it burn without giving it too much thought and I remember,

The first time I went to a movie theater in this land I saw “Sunshine”. The first boulevard I ever walked through was Sunset. The first treetops that sheltered me stood sadly off its shoulders. I soon learned that it’s always sunny here, even when it rains. Rainbows are welcome every time the skies open broadly and pour some of its contents over this city’s dirty wounds.

The first time I learned a city never heals was when I first lived here.

Romanticism never died, it took on different names. The vein that pumps blood from my heart into these lines are no longer romantic nor realistic; they shelter the storm it seldom experiences in a bottle of wine, inside of an imaginary cellar built in the darkness of my belly.

The bottom of all truths is the kind heart few of us know but I, I know it so well.

I know its name; by heart.

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