While clearing out for some space to sleep on my rather large bed, I began to notice how most of the books cluttered about my room consisted of romance. Granted, the two biological sources of my genetic makeup complain, nag and try to toss out (yes! they try to throw away my books, especially when I am out working, or when I was schooling) enough to make the grating hum of a mosquito during twilight sound like an opera; I tend to ignore them, as all good children do, to maintain what little sanity that remains in my very small head.
For me, stories have always been as essential as the air I breathe. More than fulfilling the emptiness inside, stories offer a window to peer out from the hollow isolation into as various worlds and possibilities as there are cells in a human body. A story can hold the truth and clarity lacking due to the very human biases that exist. It allows the most closed individual to listen; teaching the impossible to those whom have forgotten how to learn. Why then, would such a powerful tool be so divided and critical of each other? How is it that one does not notice the interwoven worlds genres share?
Those whom know me understand I have an obsession for love stories. It does not matter what genre from which period penned by the most foreign author, I want to know if there is romance. Please rest assure that the definition of romance used in this instance is a bit more vast than I could explain. Instead, the romantic nature of a story may not be fully evident, nor can it truly be defined as a clear cut romance. If words are symbols used to describe the intricate patterns and muddled impressions from within our being, then each letter and word used by one person shall differ slightly even if the definition is clearly written. This may be one reason why problems persist. Only a very minor one though.
What is it about romance, then, that has become so prevalent in quietly filtering our everyday life? Once upon a time, the union of two people for love was nothing more than a fancy-something not even strong enough to be a dream for the inequalities between people were so dire one can only try to survive to the next day. Now, in the supposed modern times of our era, we believe that marriage of love is a right. Despite class, race, and gender. Yes, prejudice still runs ramped, slowly sinking behind the veil of civility. Even so, there are always those whom believe and continually fight for such a right we now believe should be.
Even with impossible odds-when all may seem lost, we may turn to the stories of our youth, the fairytale of our childhood and seek answers, if not only comfort.
Stories may contain our deepest desires, our simplest wishes. Nothing more than an hour or two of escape; somewhere truly safe and secure when so many things in the world we live in, the environment that surrounds us going through rapid and sudden changes. People leave; things come and go. Yet the memories we hold, slowly melding into the dreams we spin to stories continue on. It is a give and take then, this story of ours; it builds and grows, changes and adapts. Through people, culture, and time.
So, maybe, just maybe, through stories we seek the confirmations of our beliefs, the hopes of infinite possibilities, and maybe, just maybe, a tiny near-invisible path leading us out of the very woods we had perceived as our prison.
As sleep beckons and a full day of work dawns closer, the second half in regards to stories (romantic stories!) shall have to wait another day. A day that just may be filled with something more.