“Who doesn’t want to live a romance?” he asked, and Anna listened. “There are moments in life where spirit and mind make note. Detail stands out, touching different than the rest of life as it seems to flow. When it does, I hold to that…I pay attention…and from it a dream takes shape. I write it in a way I believe could be—even if it isn’t, and even if it’ll never be.
The idea is the endearment, beginning seed in become of romance that is life’s—or mind’s—mirror to love-ideal.
And strange things happen, when I write and live as if ideal is so: often it comes to be. Maybe to me, or to other that reads—another ideal whose truth I’ll never know—piece of the story becomes as true and from the romance, new-life—in way—becomes.
Maybe that’s a part to art, to convince mind and soul to see and believe what is not yet true—but could be; and in the hope, living as so, spirit-willing—it becomes…”
He didn’t know what he was trying to say, but such is way of most beginnings and working throughs before reason and order are found. Mind must roam before it finds.
In roam he spoke. In roam he wrote, mind’s wander piece of the romance: lost, then found; romance of the roam, heart-treasure’s find in discovery-reward of seek.
Anna looked on the land, its cast in veil in heavy mist of morning dawn; gloam of the sky in warming through, bowed heads of the heavy grass. She listened to the words, hand’s hold to spirit’s stir within, knowing by the romance dream new-life had come to be.