There once was a Romantic, a young boy who idealized the notion of love, too young to truly know what it meant to love, still wet behind the ears in the ways of the world, not having learnt of reality beyond his fantasies.
He dreamed of meeting the perfect match, a young lady that he could sweep off her feet, that he could rescue from whatever peril she found herself in. This match he believed to be made in heaven, this young lady would be his to cherish and dote on forever. He mused about running her candle lit bubble baths, reading her tales of romance and far away lands, about enchanted forest picnics and late night sweet nothing conversations. He was a tad moon struck in his fantasies, saying that a moonlit walk along the beach was his cup o tea would be a gross understatement.
This young romantic never built up the courage to look for this magical maiden of his, instead he fell prey to harsh realities of the world, he soon knew rejection, not that of a young maiden, no, rejection by his peers, by society at large, for he was a young man and there was no place in the world for young men like him. He had to learn how to be hard, take a punch, get on with it. He found no acceptance for his world, so to keep his world safe he shut the real world out, for fear of further rejection and the pain that came with it he started building a wall around his world.
With each rejection, each swing that life threw at him, he built the wall thicker, taller, stronger. Soon he was so busy building his walls that he forgot to visit his world. The less time he spent in his world the less and less he was himself, his focus was sorely on building this wall to protect himself and his world.
The change in him became more noticeable, no longer a young boy either but a young man, a young man pained by the world he had left behind, a young man not allowing him to feel the pain of that longing. In its stead there was anger, seething, boiling anger, bubbling from his every pore. He became consumed by this rage, he accepted it as his own, he made it his own, never questioning from where it came, never looking at its source or what truly caused it. His anger he directed at the world, he found a means to justify his anger, he gave his anger reason, thus he became...
the Rebel.
This young man had not a single fuck to give, every single last one of them had fallen from the holes in his pockets.
He embraced a part of the world that helped him justify his rage, he sought out others who shared this unknown rage with him, he sought a place where he would not feel out of place. He found culture, or rather sub culture, a branch of society that lurked in the dark alleys of the world, a path of mayhem and chaos, delinquency, profanity, promiscuity... Punk.
He lived this word, he embodied every aspect of what this sub culture, this cast away of society, was or told him he was. This world robbed him, as he so eagerly took anything that was offered freely, it blinded him of that which he was losing. He lost sight of the reasons he sought this world out in the first place. The rage was now just an after thought, he had found his people, he had a place. This place of disrespect, this home to loathing was now his home, he cared not a thread, not for himself and not for those around him, his actions he believed had no consequence, his words no meaning.
The walls that the Romantic built still stood tall, firm, though they had not been maintained, they had not been seen to, so they were showing cracks. Through these gaps, these breaches of defense, every once in a while shone the world the Rebel had forgotten about, it shone through his heavy leathers studded and patched, it gave glimpses to those around of the true nature hidden behind the rebel. Whenever these random rays would appear the rebel would lose himself in someone, he would entirely devote himself to this person, though never truly connecting as one should with such commitments of oneself to another. These flights of fancy would never last long, the would end by the shattering of a heart, rarely ever the rebel's. Though these shatterings would remind the rebel, they would call attention to his crumbling walls, which he would then just patch up like he patched his torn clothes. No real effort in the endeavor, just enough as to not let that light from his hidden world shine through.
As the years went by the rebel became a man, or so he thought, as that is what he after all sought. The muck with which he stuck the breaches in his defense had hardened, had started covering his anger which now covered his hidden world. He became more spiritually inclined as he started journeying into what he deemed manhood, he remained rebel in his ways, though sought to be enlightened, sought answers to his questions, one of which was from where came this anger that seethed in him still.
On one night of rebellious rigor a glimpse escaped the walls. This glimpse would be the one to uncover his whole world. He met the magical maiden, he met his match made in heaven. Though he knew it not, this woman would become his world, she would embody that which he had hidden all his life. She would be the one to show him the way, the way to break his walls, the way to his heart.
