I think I'm an hopeless romantic, and I'm pretty sure now that I enjoy to suffer. Not that I am a masochist or something like that! Just that I like to feel my pain inside, and mourn for it.
I sometimes wonder if real love is left in the past or in the movies, or in the books actually, in the books of Jane Austen. Was it the atmosphere and the scene which made them lovers, or maybe they didn't have anything else to think of, because they had so much time to think? Why the things were so much valuable those days? Why do we spend everything so carelessly? Is it that hard to be happy? Is it that hard to express our feelings, is it that hard to say "I love you"? Why can't I find any answers to my questions? I think men see women as their playmates. No feelings left in them. Everything they care about is their cars, bikes, sports shoes, jobs or models whom they dream about!
Like I said before, I'm an hopeless romantic, the last one left in the world. And I'm happy to be that way..
I sometimes wonder if real love is left in the past or in the movies, or in the books actually, in the books of Jane Austen. Was it the atmosphere and the scene which made them lovers, or maybe they didn't have anything else to think of, because they had so much time to think? Why the things were so much valuable those days? Why do we spend everything so carelessly? Is it that hard to be happy? Is it that hard to express our feelings, is it that hard to say "I love you"? Why can't I find any answers to my questions? I think men see women as their playmates. No feelings left in them. Everything they care about is their cars, bikes, sports shoes, jobs or models whom they dream about!
Like I said before, I'm an hopeless romantic, the last one left in the world. And I'm happy to be that way..
