Roses are red, violets are blue, if you’re reading this column, I guess you know romance is dying too.
That’s right, I fear romance is on the rocks right now, specifically romantic language. And we must revive it.
We’re living in a time where no one knows how to flirt, let alone talk to each other anymore.
I’m reminded of this every time I overhear an awkward conversation while waiting for a lecture to begin or I find myself trying to make a clean break from an awkward conversation I’m personally in the midst of.
It’s gotten to a point where the words leaving one’s mouth expose why they’re in fact still single.
Let’s discuss the cause. For starters, literacy rates are at an all-time low. It seems like no one’s reading these days, let alone reading literature from a time long ago where every word had depth and passion.
In the words of Captain Frederick Wentworth from Jane Austen’s “Persuasion,” “You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you.”
It was normal to approach a person you found attractive in the middle of the street to drop a bar like this back in the day.
Fast forward to the present day, and it seems like the best a guy can ask is, “Snapchat?” You’re worth so little to him that he can’t even formulate a full sentence.
We think not, Chad. Try again, come back stronger with an actual declaration of your feelings. This isn’t a guessing game.
As the days go by, it’s clear society is giving up on romance little by little. We’re losing sight of classical texts from the masters of love who came before us, forgetting the profound words of Maya Angelou, Austen, John Keats, Emily Brontë, James Baldwin, Langston Hughes and William Shakespeare.
From “Touched By An Angel” by Maya Angelou. “Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.”
I challenge everyone reading this column to invest in a stationery set and embark on a side quest of writing letters, particularly love letters. I believe it would be cathartic, the ultimate relief to send and receive love letters in lieu of text chains and emails.
And allow me to remind you of some other poets of our time who knew a thing or two when it came to a sweet, sweet serenade. No one expressed emotion quite like the musicians on our parents’ mixtapes.
When listening to ‘90s R&B, I am reminded that we used to function as a proper society. There are not many in the music industry today doing it like Babyface, Eric Benét, Jon B, Maxwell and Jodeci.
If you only listen to music that exploits people, women in particular, chances are you will be brainwashed and have urges to also exploit.
I suggest you dive into the discography of the legends I listed above and lock in.
Maybe words aren’t your thing, that’s okay. I suggest you learn how to flirt with your eyes or try a friendly smile. But remember, don’t be a creeper.
I’m here to be honest with you. Gen Z probably has the worst game and dating methods in all of history.
For instance, what’s up with having a roster? If you’re unfamiliar, I’ll break it down. A roster acts as a strategy where an individual actively talks to or casually dates multiple people simultaneously without being exclusive with any of them.
It’s healthier for all parties to disengage from this approach to dating. And if you’re wondering if situationships are suitable, it’s also a big fat no.
I understand it’s the 21st century and people are desperate with a sprinkle of hopelessness.
However, what if we ditched the rosters and hopelessness altogether? Let’s choose to focus on one person and see where the wind takes us. After all, Mr. Darcy wasn’t courting two girls; no, no, he was standing in an awkward silence across the room from Elizabeth Bennet, yearning for her.
Conrad Fisher had no interest whatsoever in a hot boy summer; he was suffering in silence over Belly Conklin.
Edward Cullen rathered true death, turning himself into the Volturi, than live without Bella Swan, when he thought his one and only love was six feet under.
Noah Calhoun waited years for Allie Hamilton and built her a dream house with a wraparound porch while you’re still busy building your weekly lineup of hookups.
It’s time to take a master class from the men written by women and those who just get it.
Ava Francis is a 22-year-old journalism major from New Orleans.
