I’m a romantic. I have a thing for the ideal. I know that in most cases it is unattainable, and that all the hours I spend fantasizing about it might be considered as wasted. But that doesn’t stop me from daydreaming about perfect days and perfect people – a perfect life. I dream about spending my summers in a cabin in the woods, sipping coffee and reading Keats or Neruda. I dream of walking barefoot on the beach, watching the sun set in a beautiful blaze of color. I dream of backpacking through a world where I don’t have to be afraid, where the strangers smile back at me. I dream of nights spent under a canopy of stars, with Sinatra softly singing me to sleep. I dream of a cup of coffee that becomes the plot of my love story. I dream of a life filled with beauty; of men who look like Greek gods and women who are divas drunk on grace. But most of all I dream of myself – a “me” that has achieved all the good that is possible in a lifetime, a “me” that has manifested in itself all good things and shrugged off all the bad, a “me” that has become desirable, loveable, inspirational. I dream of a “me” that is the most unattainable of unattainable ideals. But that is what romantics do, we see the world not as it is, but as what we think Heaven might be – because we don’t live for this world, we live for Heaven. And we may be sinners, the lot of us. But, contrary to popular belief, romance, in pure essence, isn’t sin; it is the basis of faith. God gave me an imagination so that I could see Heaven in all the unattainable ideals. God made me to be a romantic, to write of love, and passion and the desire for all things brilliant. God made me to love. And so I am a romantic who dreams away her days and waits for a spark to start the flame and light up my ideal in a beautiful, glorious blaze of color. My ideals define me – I am a romantic, because I dream.