Are you romantic ?

I have been talking to a few Jedi and i have come to the conclusion i am just as Romantic as well not that much really hmm

, what about you ?

Tell us !!

Thank you for the Anonymous contribution , person who wishes to stay Anonymous , and whose name is shall therefor not mention i hope your link works here loll , these ar tips for a romantic get together ..you may copy and paste or whatever :laugh:

Warning , warning , this is not a pick up line , i repeat , this is not a pick up line , not for female or male or whatevers !

MartaLina wrote:

I WAS going to post something... then I saw this. All of the above.

Huge romantic + Nerd.

And this one is only recommended when the person in question has made it very obvious that he or she or whatever is into Lightsabers ...but please tell me ...what we should do en not what we should not , thusfar this thread has not been very romantic either hehe

Ah, but what is romance?
Is it gazing into those deep eyes
And feeling as I can dance?
Is it sighing when I hear your name
Whispered to me
By the rain
Or the feeling of light and warmth
From the gentle whisper
Of your hair moving
Back and forth

This is the kind of stuff I might come up with if I'm particularly horny, lol. :laugh:

Manu wrote: Ah, but what is romance?
Is it gazing into those deep eyes
And feeling as I can dance?
Is it sighing when I hear your name
Whispered to me
By the rain
Or the feeling of light and warmth
From the gentle whisper
Of your hair moving
Back and forth

This is the kind of stuff I might come up with if I'm particularly horny, lol. :laugh:

Nice ...very smooth . I am proud to know such an eloquent and warmblooded Jedi !!

I hear the noise of a few hundred fingers typing this over loll or copy haha

"The truth is in the details" someone once said, and they might be the only one here who knows what I'm talking about.

ἀρχάγγελος

*... and moulded around a bright compass of prospectives on yesterdays twisting and spinning, double-timing and tripling, tripping back upon Themselves in icons and effigies of fugitive phantasmagorical figures of changing Times and morphing Cosmologies, Cosmogonies and Chaoses there – where here was – when moments were carved apart from something more solid – state of the Art representations of non-presentable objects objecting to closer scrutiny than feelings flooding though and around-about the point, that of view, that of exactitude and that of turning … the Angel walks in devils' lands, his hands held only together – yet all the more tenderly – by the curiosity of what being Angelic may be like, likewise stepping over and on bones of those who explored there before, making the map and becoming the land where Angels fall from Grace into Love-making them much more Cherubic but a little less prone to Wis-dom, where, in at least eleven dimensions, the living landscape of bones and hearts bound to beating beckon in every impossible direction the most confusing of solicitations, invitations and seductions : all with clearly posted “No Trespassing” signs of sweetly sighed after-Life promising a brutal Ejection back into Grace-ful map-making and bleached white, suchlike the Pawn that wasn't really there in the Game(s), masquerading as an up-ended Other, taken up and out as quickly to become a more authentic thing with a quite artificial absence … the hand held there, guided gently, glides over alabaster tenderly intended and imitating a caress – imitations by sincere intention of stone and precious gems so common in hydrocarbon rich climates – vapours and veils un-twofold in desperate desire to flee from the most moving moment of beauty a Living thing could ever know … as tears fall from eyes fixed on the opening, hoping and fearing it could close at any second-chance and second-hand held fragment of thought piercing the space-time between heartbeats ; Angels are really rarer than most cemeteries and museums would suggest, and they find one another all the more rarely and only in desolate, desert greens and public works in progress, along roadsides and under the shifting quicksands of the hourglass whirling 'round wildly out-of-control … Collisions of stars-crossing paths between constellations erupt dazzling displays of colour and metaphors, hypnotising mishap victims, making them come to Life again ; forgotten daylight seeps into the grounds for punishment predicted in tales of instinct and envy as shipwrecks take up where accidents of confession and of honest Nature left off under the autumn leaves, the waxing crescent moon and the echoes of “if only” … Taking turns at time-taking and telling now, with stories un-told about how much was taken or mistaken for making every other thing but Love under the spread-sheets' columns of karmic debts paid in full at just under thirty pieces of silver-lining beginning to rain, every drop a gemstone, an ocean, a Universe teeming with Life, exchanging Chaos for Cosmos with every down-spiral galaxy and up-rough draft … the Angel scoops up and contemplates inquisitively a handful of dust that was once (and Could Be again) the vitality of a young poet on the other side of Ever-more, a couple of calendars ago and pipe-ful of memories from distant Worlds all going up in smoke-signals drifting unseen, unread and unWanted out over the sea ; Fourteen fortnights to light a contained reaction suspire and laugh away toward the Inferno kindled by a mischievous smile cast across the Non-sense gulf, the Absurd Sea and Oceans upon Oceans of Longing to sleep and maybe dream here – where there was – again another night … oneiric passages into tighter corridors between Detachment and Desire are shaken awake quaking by and ever deeper into the Violence of Heartbeats, the second-hands held stopping the tock-tick-t-o-c-k-*s from progressing into the following hours, profane and earth-bound, by the soundest of Reason to not claim the quickening until the next and next-most daybreak's break-fast … Tables turned and torn apart from the gravity that got terribly grand, masses expanding with every other benediction 'til it just couldn't hold their weight, but did anyway by some magic or metaphysic or metaphor, colourful or not, believing one or a dozen things and horrified by as many more, hoping for com-passionate praxis some-wherewithal throughout the Pleiades, knowing no greater affection than kisses savoured sensuously only in their Intention … Angels are mostly Immortal, dying only from snakebite-size instances of Disbelief or δοκεῖν which hide insidiously in the folds of garments worn only for the Show and Telling of Faerie Tales through which mysteries are revealed by crawling crippled with weather-worn wings out of shipwrecks, across the bones and by the “No Trespassing” signs re-transformed into symbols back into sacred space-time, eternal 'in illo tempore' and 'happily ever after'-Life, united in an inconceivable advaita as before the carvers came … Homes begin before they are ever built – across bridges over chasms and into clouds thundering heavy from the bonds that strengthen them – into more solid states of being, artful and authentic, up-ended or not, only a little backwards in mirror-like reflections of Grace-making and face-saving gestures helped by and held in Angel hands … Gazing up into a starscape, checking the where here has become now by recognising constellations and the traffic through them, the flow of tears tells time more accurately than clepsydrae ; joy and sorrow swell up and burst out laughing at the notion of Nirvana and the relief it brings to home-comings and playful outings … Folded wings and wrapped in episcopal arms, free-falling into all Art, this delicate Angel sleeps off his adventures beyond the signs, beyond the map, beyond time-taking and telling ~ for philosopher~priests love so richly, crescendoing to apotheosis, raising cupfuls of sweeter ambrosia than known on Olympus (yet brought surely by the same cup-bearer) and wiping away the spill-splattering of sticky and attractive images of delights and terrors from the residue of the real, dripped, drizzled ...*

Alexandre Orion
29 août 2015

Alexandre Orion wrote:

ἀρχάγγελος

*... and moulded around a bright compass of prospectives on yesterdays twisting and spinning, double-timing and tripling, tripping back upon Themselves in icons and effigies of fugitive phantasmagorical figures of changing Times and morphing Cosmologies, Cosmogonies and Chaoses there – where here was – when moments were carved apart from something more solid – state of the Art representations of non-presentable objects objecting to closer scrutiny than feelings flooding though and around-about the point, that of view, that of exactitude and that of turning … the Angel walks in devils' lands, his hands held only together – yet all the more tenderly – by the curiosity of what being Angelic may be like, likewise stepping over and on bones of those who explored there before, making the map and becoming the land where Angels fall from Grace into Love-making them much more Cherubic but a little less prone to Wis-dom, where, in at least eleven dimensions, the living landscape of bones and hearts bound to beating beckon in every impossible direction the most confusing of solicitations, invitations and seductions : all with clearly posted “No Trespassing” signs of sweetly sighed after-Life promising a brutal Ejection back into Grace-ful map-making and bleached white, suchlike the Pawn that wasn't really there in the Game(s), masquerading as an up-ended Other, taken up and out as quickly to become a more authentic thing with a quite artificial absence … the hand held there, guided gently, glides over alabaster tenderly intended and imitating a caress – imitations by sincere intention of stone and precious gems so common in hydrocarbon rich climates – vapours and veils un-twofold in desperate desire to flee from the most moving moment of beauty a Living thing could ever know … as tears fall from eyes fixed on the opening, hoping and fearing it could close at any second-chance and second-hand held fragment of thought piercing the space-time between heartbeats ; Angels are really rarer than most cemeteries and museums would suggest, and they find one another all the more rarely and only in desolate, desert greens and public works in progress, along roadsides and under the shifting quicksands of the hourglass whirling 'round wildly out-of-control … Collisions of stars-crossing paths between constellations erupt dazzling displays of colour and metaphors, hypnotising mishap victims, making them come to Life again ; forgotten daylight seeps into the grounds for punishment predicted in tales of instinct and envy as shipwrecks take up where accidents of confession and of honest Nature left off under the autumn leaves, the waxing crescent moon and the echoes of “if only” … Taking turns at time-taking and telling now, with stories un-told about how much was taken or mistaken for making every other thing but Love under the spread-sheets' columns of karmic debts paid in full at just under thirty pieces of silver-lining beginning to rain, every drop a gemstone, an ocean, a Universe teeming with Life, exchanging Chaos for Cosmos with every down-spiral galaxy and up-rough draft … the Angel scoops up and contemplates inquisitively a handful of dust that was once (and Could Be again) the vitality of a young poet on the other side of Ever-more, a couple of calendars ago and pipe-ful of memories from distant Worlds all going up in smoke-signals drifting unseen, unread and unWanted out over the sea ; Fourteen fortnights to light a contained reaction suspire and laugh away toward the Inferno kindled by a mischievous smile cast across the Non-sense gulf, the Absurd Sea and Oceans upon Oceans of Longing to sleep and maybe dream here – where there was – again another night … oneiric passages into tighter corridors between Detachment and Desire are shaken awake quaking by and ever deeper into the Violence of Heartbeats, the second-hands held stopping the tock-tick-t-o-c-k-*s from progressing into the following hours, profane and earth-bound, by the soundest of Reason to not claim the quickening until the next and next-most daybreak's break-fast … Tables turned and torn apart from the gravity that got terribly grand, masses expanding with every other benediction 'til it just couldn't hold their weight, but did anyway by some magic or metaphysic or metaphor, colourful or not, believing one or a dozen things and horrified by as many more, hoping for com-passionate praxis some-wherewithal throughout the Pleiades, knowing no greater affection than kisses savoured sensuously only in their Intention … Angels are mostly Immortal, dying only from snakebite-size instances of Disbelief or δοκεῖν which hide insidiously in the folds of garments worn only for the Show and Telling of Faerie Tales through which mysteries are revealed by crawling crippled with weather-worn wings out of shipwrecks, across the bones and by the “No Trespassing” signs re-transformed into symbols back into sacred space-time, eternal 'in illo tempore' and 'happily ever after'-Life, united in an inconceivable advaita as before the carvers came … Homes begin before they are ever built – across bridges over chasms and into clouds thundering heavy from the bonds that strengthen them – into more solid states of being, artful and authentic, up-ended or not, only a little backwards in mirror-like reflections of Grace-making and face-saving gestures helped by and held in Angel hands … Gazing up into a starscape, checking the where here has become now by recognising constellations and the traffic through them, the flow of tears tells time more accurately than clepsydrae ; joy and sorrow swell up and burst out laughing at the notion of Nirvana and the relief it brings to home-comings and playful outings … Folded wings and wrapped in episcopal arms, free-falling into all Art, this delicate Angel sleeps off his adventures beyond the signs, beyond the map, beyond time-taking and telling ~ for philosopher~priests love so richly, crescendoing to apotheosis, raising cupfuls of sweeter ambrosia than known on Olympus (yet brought surely by the same cup-bearer) and wiping away the spill-splattering of sticky and attractive images of delights and terrors from the residue of the real, dripped, drizzled ...*

Alexandre Orion
29 août 2015

Wow Alexandre , that is one long pick up line ..just for the record , what or who were you trying to [strike]get to sleep[/strike] pick up with this very deep and filosophical plea?