the romanticist and her fall.

When a romanticist tries to write about falling in love, it probably took her all but one burst of emotions to have felt all these long-yearned feelings and emotions. The writing flow wouldn’t move through that easily unless the romanticist is in the presence of love itself.

The modern world does challenge the romanticist, quickly forming the definitions and labels one would present to name each stage and phase of the fall. While the romanticist has fallen early and easily before, multiple facades of all the personas she met defied her ideologies and passions. The arena was filled with voices about how the fall should look like, when, in fact, no rules but the heart should have dictated the process.

Love is, if I may, so weird. It does not come in one shape or size; it does not come with one fixed answer you want to look for. It takes less than a heartbeat to fall for some; it might take years of patience and conversation for others. If being lucky is the right terminology for the romanticist who fell, that should be it.

The romanticist enjoyed her time abreast without intentions of getting tangled within. She had her fill of adventures as her curiosity peaked, scrambled to fit pieces of herself into a backpack that never seemed big enough for her stories, and lived heartily as she filled her heart to the brim with friends, family, and herself. She scoured heights, swam in depths, trembled in chilly winds, danced, and pranced with the autumn leaves. She marvelled at nature's works; she cried her soul calm whenever art creations inspired her; she critically analysed and logicised her action plan towards her dreams and goals. She was her complete self, contained and content with how her story with the world unfolded.

Then he came along, unknowingly, swift and carefree. He caught the romanticist in her lacklustre when she swayed with the world and wondered her worth. It was slow, starting with casual laughter at conversations that piqued the interest of both parties. The romanticist was unassuming, thinking it was just a little light in the grey, dull days. It spurred quickly from real random sharing of moments in the day to lengthy, heartfelt conversations intentionally done to understand each other better. The romanticist was unaware, but she slowly wore her heart on her sleeves again.

When she came to her senses, she was terrified. The last time she loved with her heart out, it left her in tatters, pierced with iron needles that leave a sting that sores and seeps with tears-packed injury. She sought to repatch the gaping realisation with frantic measures, pushing her heart back in, but to no avail. She was aware of how brisk the whole affair had become as she consciously watched her fall.

Her fall was not surprising. It may be the erratic heartbeat she felt as nerves overtook her the first time they met. It may be the gust of chuckling wind as the car door opened. It may be the interlocking eyes that knew how love felt at first sight. It may be the greying clouds that turned into pouring showers, the constant light in his eyes that overtook their conversations, the animated self she had when she shared her needs and passions, and her slow curiosity for the being sitting across her as she prompted for him to share his stories.

Her fall was not surprising. He was his whole, complete, and assured self; he was everything she had asked for - calm, matching vibes, honest - he has his ways of leaving her without confusion and doubts, so much so that her days are filled with happiness that she never thought one could feel when in love. He was swift, patient, and willing. He was her enabler, and he loves to say how she did what she's saying he does to him, too. Oh, when in love, even the greyest of days turn less dull together.

Her fall was not surprising. He was her muse, her solace, and her place of peace. He was so in love that he showed no hesitation in asking for her assertiveness, but at the same time, he was so in love that he gave her all the time she needed. She shared his heart with him, when he said love is two hearts coming together to give each other a warm hug. She shared his passion with him, when he said he wanted to run away with her. She shared his peace with him, when he said they have all the time in the world together.

The romanticist fell, deep, slow, and passionate. It burned her mind and heart inside out, making her unlike her usual composed self, but oh, she is so in love with her current state. Whenever she looked at him and spent all the time in the world together, she couldn't help but wonder where time went to pass this fast—nor could she help but wonder where time could go to slow all the minutes when she stayed close to him. Maybe that's how it will feel when you are romancing and falling for the right person.

The romanticist fell in love - a love that allowed her to heal and grow from her traumas and fears. It was a love that allowed her a sense of calm as she moved stealthily through life; it was a love that gave her all the assurance and certainty she needed to stop doubting. It was not life-changing or life-consuming, but it amplified the light in her and her life. It was continuity, a warm hug after tired days; it was unbelievable warmth and tranquillity as she moved through life with him beside her.

The romanticist fell in love - a love that taught her what it meant for time to be moving too fast when they're together and a love that taught her how to count hours by seconds as the clock ticked before they met the next time. It was a love that prompted her self-discovery, convinced her it would be all right to be vulnerable, and allowed her to understand why forever is insufficient for two souls made for each other. It was a love that kept them both at the edge of their seats because they wanted to take it slow but yet burn so strongly all they thought of as they went through time, all they want is to melt in each others' arms and caress.

Oh, for love so strong, the romanticist never felt she understood how to write about love, narrate the feelings of love, and thread love into a woven picture, all until she met him. For a passion, a vibe that clicks, and a desire to deserve and allow the other person to feel he deserves; for her to find the right words to describe how she feels in his presence; she never knew how to walk the path, all until she met him. For a story so connected and a heart so intertwined, they were willing to wait, despite knowing all they wanted was to run towards each other, fizzle everlastingly in the soft ambers of mellow sunset, and sit through to sunrise.

Oh, for a love so strong, the romanticist grew to be calm, and slowly regained more composure as they grow towards each other. If life spans into 60, she has 432 months left with him. If forever was a noun, he made it an adjective and a verb, an idealistic and realistic dream, as he was so certain of building a home together. For love so strong, the romanticist was willing to try and put behind her insecurities as they headed towards the future they were resolute upon building.

For love so strong, the romanticist believed, it was worth trying; it was worth putting her head into her heart and once again coaxing the locked dungeons into bright castle halls - to welcome the most courageous and patient suitor into the rooms that yearned for warmth, yet again.

For love so strong, the romanticist wished, it is what the future will look like. It will be an adventure worth sailing upon - and she was resolute that it is a cruise of life - that will amplify all the stories to come.

For my muse, who relishes in my passions, fuels my adventures, and

For my muse, who draws closer each time we meet and

For my muse, who reciprocates all the laughter and vulnerability, and

For my muse, who trusts time and leads me astray from spilling thoughts and

For my muse, whose heartbeat resonates mine when love sings.

-x-