To Be a Knight in Shining Armour

“Courage is like love; it must have hope to nourish it.”
Napoleon Bonaparte

At my core, I’m of an epic mind. I think in terms of quests and adventures, not goals and obligations. Unfortunately, the inherent monotony of this life too often squanders my lofty ambitions and expectations.

Never has this become more apparent than in my tragically fruitless love life. I long for the fantasies of old when strapping young men needed only to slay a dragon or beguile a witch to earn the hearts of their beloved. Not only does this mode of courtship seem much simpler and, in all honesty, more humane than the crude practices employed by today’s youth, but it put men to the test in a manner not readily available in the wireless world.

I don’t know this self-evaluation has merit, but I walk through life with a pervasive chill of cowardice about my heart. I remain at a loss as to its source. As Antonio says of his melancholy in The Merchant of Venice “How I caught it, found it, or came by it, what stuff ‘tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.” That is how I feel about the taint of yellow flowing through my veins.

This scourge upon my manhood does not come from self-doubt – oh to have such specificity – but from the untested mettle of my soul. I know not whether this cowardice truly exists, waiting silently for a convenient time to trigger my flight response, or if perhaps my bravery has merely run cold, having found no use for itself these days.

As much as I have let cynicism and pragmatism color the world around me, love always escapes their stain; I continue to romanticize it against my better judgment. I don't consider myself incomplete without love in my life, but I do long for it. I am confident in myself – my capabilities and my talents – as a single man, but something in my heart tells me that love can lead me to greater heights. I have tasted such spoils only briefly. Two of the best works I’ve ever managed were love letters, spontaneous rushes of romanticism spurred by a pair of rare and wonderful muses. I can recall how I felt as I wrote those letters. They flowed through me naturally, without the slightest struggle, and I relished the dedication with which I pursued both of them. It may not have been slaying the dragon, per se, but it felt as though I was preparing the sword with which to strike the fatal blow.

In my life, I have told three girls that I loved them. I was mistaken in each case. As every other area of my life forces me to lower my expectations, my regard for love becomes ever more intense. Am I in love with love? In a way, I suppose. When you don’t have another to love, you can either encourage romanticism to flourish in that absence or let bitterness and loneliness corrupt it.

I have set high expectations on love, and in turn, on the girl who I am to love. And if there is a girl for me out there, she will relish and embrace the challenge of my idealism. I will know I’ve found love when she awakens in me the sleeping knight who yearns to prove himself, when fear becomes an afterthought in my daily life. Until that time, I must question my heart, my courage, and hope that there are still those precious few out there who still have dragons to slay.