Seriously. Faded literary aspirations aside, I haven't even penned a single romantic stanza - unless you count the bawdy limerick I wrote about naughty bishops back in high school. Though I know it's all metaphorical in nature, I really doubt whole mountain ranges or rushing tributaries could be moved by my passionate ardour nor do I think that any inspirational words I pen could possibly describe the sheer six-fathoms-depth of emotion that I feel.
Pledging amour beneath the balcony
Till I met Charming Calvin and his other lovelorn ilk online of course. Though he would vehemently deny such an unpardonable accusation, I know the man secretly sighs and swoons over literary phrases that counts the many varied ways of loving him while comparing his beauty to a summer's day.
Which I find odd since I've never actually believed in the purported might of the pen. Despite being an extremely voluble writer, I've always been a firm believer that actions inevitably speak louder. Perhaps there's a strong vein of practicality in me that prefers a piping-hot bowl of chicken soup when I'm sniffling to a beautifully written ode to my curly-tressed raven locks.
Paul : If I gushed all over you, praising your virtues to the sky, what would you think?
My ISO : That you were drunk or high on some new designer drug?
Paul : Precisely what I'd say! What's wrong with us?
My ISO : We're just cold-hearted realists?
Is that it? Have we become too cool for mushy romance? Has the general mode of remaining perpetually blase and unaffected changed us into such unfeeling stubborn cynics that we only seek to mock when hopelessly dewy-eyed lovers pledge their troth forever and always? That sentimental sonnets from the portuguese recited beneath the sighing boughs of a willow under a balcony leaves us hardly shaken, never stirred and perhaps more than a little embarassed by the sheer mawkishness of it all.
And that's even if I don't start searching for solid objects to stone the unfortunate swain and his accompanying troubadours. :)