As a child, the image of rescue from some Prince Charming was all I could see. I wanted to be that princess, with my hero at my side. A Champion

As I got older, I realized that I didn’t want a man prettier than me, with infinitely better hair.  I still wanted to be rescued, and still looked for my hero.

In my teens, I realised that there is no such thing as a Knight in shining armour.  Most of them were idiots in tinfoil.  If I wanted a hero, I had to become one. I failed in so many ways

As a young woman, the notion of True Love was shattered, and my romantic’s heart took a beating.
I needed rescuing, desperately needed a hero. Safety. I knew then that my belief in love was dying. Romance was already dead and buried.

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Now that I’m older, I am wiser. Harder. My trust in humanity was lost long ago. Romance is a dusty pipe-dream.  I now dream in darkness, and shun the light. There are monsters in the light.

I look for a King befitting my Crown.  No princes for me.

I still search the horizon for my Hero.

I still believe in love.  I believe that a meeting of the eyes is as much a teller of truths as the heart is.  I believe that a word unprompted can do as much as a touch can.

I believe that I’m worth a Hero, although I’m pretty sure that romance is a unicorn. A myth.

I believe you find your happy where you can   It’s the small things like pretty words.  It’s nice to know that there are still romantics out there in our fucked up world

Inwardly.

Everyone wants to feel like they  matter to someone. Even a little  I wonder if I’m just a big old fool for still hanging on to the outdated precept.

And then I smile. Because, at least someone out there still believes in love enough to write those breathless words for someone they adore

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