It’s amazing how you can watch a sappy romantic movie or read a book and feel gratified and sad at the same time. It’s kind of like trying to satisfy a craving that never ends. If I went to Verona and wrote a letter to Juliet, I suppose I would ask her why is it that my life lacks romance? I don’t necessarily need my man to climb on a balcony and profess his undying love for me. It would be nice to go for a long stroll holding hands, or just to be held until I drifted off to sleep.
Every now and then I am allotted what could be considered romantic gestures. I realize that everyone has their own idea about what true romance entails. Who wants to be involved in a passionless, lack-luster relationship? I’ve tried to write romance novels, yet they somehow turn up incomplete. Without a well to draw from I have no canvass to display my work. Nothing like that goes on in my own life. Perhaps it is hard for me to imagine anything of the sort.
Should I leave little hints? Or perhaps I should beg. I wonder what it would take to get that kind of thing going in my life. Maybe I should do some light reading on sprucing up my love life. Obviously nothing interesting is going to happen in the bedroom if the mood isn’t right. Lust can only carry you so far.
We have only been together for a little while, and we are already in Snoozeville. There is no mystery, surprise, or romance. Just blah, less than ordinary, and mundane. Where do we go from here? I’m already looking out my window wishing on a star that it could be different. How sad.
What do you suggest, Juliet?
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