Alex Johnson

English 2010
MWF 10-11

A Hopeless Romantic
By Alex Johnson

Recess was the only time I got to see her, to me she was perfect. Even though I was only
eight, I was sure she was the one for me. Around the swings and through the playground we ran.
Throwing up woodchips and resonating laughter as we went. Youth has that ability, the
simplicity that is lost in time. We ran and laughed, those few fleeting moments at recess were the
fastest eternity I had ever experienced. Eventually I caught up to her, and she laughed. Her
laugh made my heart laughed with her. I smiled, trying my best to hide the space where my baby
tooth had left vacant. Again she giggled, and I leaned in and kissed her.

That was over twelve years ago, since then a lot has changed. Since that moment during
recess where I ran around the playground a lot has changed, I have changed. My views on love
stay the same, by time has eroded away the bright optimism of my youth. Love is the most
simply complicated thing I have ever experienced. The result is much the same; however it is
how it is achieved that is radically more complicated. Somehow in a digital age where simplicity
and instantaneous gratification is prized, those traditional problems still present themselves. The
ideas of love, in general, are universal. Though for me, they have been shaped radically by my
world around me.
Society has, without a doubt, shaped me and my views on adoration and affection. It has
also, perhaps, been the reason for the decline of the most important facet of love; romance.

Classically speaking love was something that used to be much grander, but at the same time less
public. Often when we turn to the past our minds and the way we view things become warped.
When we turn our heads to times now gone, one must be careful not to get lost in it. However,
literature is the best way I have found to travel into the past without getting lost in it. As a child I
loved reading, I still do. My nights were filled with all sorts of different stories and epics.
Reading allowed me to develop romantic heroes. Heroes such as Romeo Montague, Jay Gatsby,
and Frederic Henry, or Tenente as his soldiers knew him. I read these books and believed that
romance could be achieved through perseverance. Some may call me romantic because of this.
Continually caught in that land between reality and fantasy, I am habitually torn between
pragmatism romanticism. However it seems as though this love of romantic ideals has perhaps
hindered me. My generation has slowly drifted from a patient love, opting for an emotion more
instant and simple. Poems and literature slowly become less romantic and simply more tragic.
Classic literature shaped me and my views on love, though they were not my only examples.
As a child I believed, and still do, that my parents were the best examples of a perfect
marriage one could ever imagine. They have been married over 30 years now, and not once have
I seen them fight beyond the point of reconciliation. My mother is a saint; you have to be to raise
a child such as myself. My father compliments her perfectly, always presenting a quiet but
powerful facade that resounds throughout the house. Watching and patiently learning from them
has been the best way for me to learn the process of a successful marriage. However, just as I
have good examples, I have also seen many poor examples. These examples tend to be modeled
more after a modern and impatient love. This kind of love that I believe defines our society is
pocked with that fallible trait of impatience. My older brother exudes this impatience that is very
evident in his first marriage. Where my parents worked and resolved their issues and disputes, he

let them fester; poisoning his marriage. His impatience led to his divorce, which has caused
damage not only to himself and our family, but also to his son. So of these examples I have
learned the importance of patience, and the toxicity of impatience.
In my own more recent experiences, I have seen simply frustration. Most will probably
look at failed loves and be frustrated, but to each individual case its own tragic end. This
frustration is pushing me to impatience, to lessen my standards and ideals on love. Often times I
see in women my own age the kind of impatience that doomed my brothers marriage. That kind
of impatience only requires a little push to send it to the point of no return. The more and more I
stick to these ideals, the more and more I feel out of place. Outdated and doomed to forever have
my head turned to days now past. Stuck in the alps in Switzerland with Catherine Barkley and
Frederic Henry, or caught forever waiting at the window for Juliet to present herself. This digital
age has lost me, or perhaps I am lost in it. At times I wish I could return to that playground of my
youth. Foolish as it may seem, love was simpler then. Time will change, and those moments are
lost to us; like tears in the rain.

As I sat there I realized exactly the gravity of the situation. Like the final tick of a clock,
our time had ended, expired. That time had gone too faraway places, those faraway places
where all lost things go. It had been twelve years since I had chased Katie around the
playground. I felt like I was still chasing, though the object of my pursuit had changed. In that
sense I am a romantic, a hopeless romantic. That is the curse of hopeless romantics; that they
are continually chasing moments long passed. For in that moment I was a hopeless romantic, but
romantically hopeless. I had known for a while that she would be leaving. Going on that journey

that life often takes us on, wearing away and eroding even the soundest foundations. And even
though I knew that moment was coming, it still took me by surprise. Quietly she asked me if were
done, and even more softly I nodded yes. Leaning in, I kissed her gently on the cheek. Saying
with as much fervor as I could muster, you are a lost cause, but youre my lost cause, and lost
causes are the only things worth fighting for