She Begins Writing....

A vision of idealism rolls itself like a blind film over the eyes of a girl in love. Romantic books and "happily ever after" movies are perhaps the best culprits of which such whimsical reveries could possibly be drawn - where a kiss is accompanied by a million firecrackers exploding on the ebony sky, or the union between two long lost lovers would be glorified with the flight of a hundred white doves. Could reality possibly par itself to the fanciful and perfect dreams that the mind creates?

Why is it that the images that are flashed before the television screen become the basis as to how a relationship should progress? Why does it seem that all couples are required to kiss at one point of their togetherness in order to confirm not only to the public audience but also to themselves of their complete devotions for each other? What therefore is a kiss? Could it be just the simple act of puckering up one's lips and meeting the other's, eventually adding the accessory of hands wandering consciously or even unconsciously like a snake slithering across the partner's body? Could such a simple act bear only the mundane symbolism of lust or is it possible to have more weight than what was just mentioned?

Time has been awfully kind with me. His punishments for my poor insight regarding love were faint, and yet I cannot help but yearn for more aggressive blows from the divine emotion; blows grave enough that I would no longer stand as I do now, critical enough that I would no longer recover the fullness of my esteem or worse, my being. Am I savoring the pleasures derived from my masochism, or am I challenging the possibility of perhaps the frightful encounter with a mature affair?Thus I question, have I truly loved?