I have often been sarcastic about Ruritania and made cryptic allusions to the Queen of Ruritanias rose in my more bitter poems;
`Honour! Honour and Lies,
Well the Queen of Ruritania sends her rose,
And it dies.’
Honour and Love, two things I can easily be bitter and cynical about because neither is as easy as they look and both are hurtful, yet they stand on a pedestal of being ok to hurt with because they are right. I can almost feel my mouth twisting with cynicism at this point. A preprepared rant is waiting to be activated, I know all the words already.
How I hate love and honour, how they bind, how I refuse to let anything bind me…for what else can freedom be?
But I think that Ruritania has got to me. I think it taught me whilst I was sleeping or crept inside my heart and tied it’s knots inside me.
For how can love co-exist with honour? For how can honour exist with freedom? Anf yet I think I understand how love and honour and freedom exist.
Love can exist for a second, an eyeblink and need nothing more. Honour can exist for a lifetime if Love can exist for a second. And I think I freedom is a head word not a body word, and in the head things get left unsaid.
Someone let Ruritania climb inside and take hold…and the cynicism doesn’t even have the decency to fight back.