Chilled but warm are the rings of crickets. Clickity clack and hiss hiss. The skin covering my rib cage grows goosebumps, and my cheeks are red with heat. The simplistic tangy voice of Maggie Rogers in “Color Song” floats through my ears into my brain:
“Now that the light is fading
silver and purple at twilight
scenes of the day remain with us
bright as the fire is burning bright.”
Now that the day is coming to an end, our memories that we’ve captured and have stored away resurface. As vividly as if we had experienced them a moment ago, they flood through our minds like the waves of the deepest ocean. The sudden smack of warmth from the sun that hit our faces as we stepped outside that morning. The image of the glistening river beneath the overgrown trees. The sky growing dark to reveal the magic of the stars. A chance to see someone beneath the blossoming tree. Only after we have lost the day do we desire it to be ours again.
But what if the day we desire is never truly ours to acquire in present reality? The romanticism of our minds makes life out to be so much more. A perfect day or moment. A perfect person or relationship. A series of “what if?” questions become our own little imaginative reality restricted within the walls of our minds. And when the desires in our minds don’t mirror present reality, we are left to mourn the fact that our hopes did not come true. We feel the effects of the rejection that our wishes bring upon us when we romanticize.
A fantasy.
Through the day we went.
A fascination with romanticization.
What we lost
never ours to gain
causes us pain.
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