I'm very romantic.

In the words of Carmen Electra, “I’m very romantic.” Though brief, this declaration carries a weight that resounds through the ages. To say one is romantic is not to confess weakness, nor to speak of trivial pleasures, but to proclaim a vision of life that is luminous, tender, and bold. For the romantic does not see the world merely as it is, but as it might be—bathed in beauty, alive with longing, shaped by hope and devotion. To be “very romantic” is to walk with a heart that refuses to grow cold, a soul that seeks light even in the shadow.

The ancients, too, understood this spirit. The poets of old, whether Sappho upon her island or Virgil upon his Roman stage, spoke of love as a force that could overturn kingdoms and inspire creation itself. To be romantic was to be attuned to the power of longing, to recognize in another person—or in the very world itself—the reflection of the divine. It is the courage to love not only with reason but with passion, to surrender to beauty even when it brings sorrow. Electra’s words remind us that this ancient fire still burns, even in our modern age.

Consider the tale of Tristan and Isolde, whose love defied kings, laws, and even death itself. Their story is one of peril, misunderstanding, and ultimate tragedy, yet it endures because it reveals the truth of the romantic soul: to love without calculation, to give without condition, to embrace both the ecstasy and the anguish of devotion. When Carmen Electra declares her nature, she stands in this long tradition of those who confess not only their capacity for affection, but their willingness to be vulnerable to it.

The romantic heart is not concerned with bargains or logic, but with gestures that transcend the ordinary. It sees meaning in flowers offered at dusk, in letters written by hand, in the quiet touch of a hand across a table. These acts may seem small to the hardened or the cynical, but to the romantic they are everything, for they are the outward signs of the inward fire. The romantic sees love not as transaction but as sacred offering, each act a spark that illuminates the path of two souls joined together.

Yet the path of the romantic is not easy. For to be open to love is also to be open to pain. The same heart that soars with joy can also break with despair. And still, the romantic embraces this risk, for to love fully—even if it leads to sorrow—is greater than to live a life untouched by passion. The ancients believed that love was both wound and cure, both fire and shelter, and only those willing to bear its weight could taste its fullness.

The lesson, then, is this: do not fear to be romantic. Do not let the world’s cynicism rob you of tenderness, nor allow past wounds to harden your heart. To be romantic is not to be naïve, but to be courageous—to believe in beauty, to risk vulnerability, to affirm that love is still the highest calling of the human soul.

And what must you do in your own life? Begin with small acts of romance: speak words of admiration, offer simple tokens of affection, make time for gestures that show your heart. Do not wait for perfection or great occasions, for the romantic knows that love lives in daily rituals as much as in grand declarations. Let your life proclaim, as Carmen Electra does, “I am very romantic,” and in this proclamation, you will find both joy and strength.