of Rose and kismet

I've lost count of how many times I've read Eight Cousins and Rose in Bloom.
And I've lost count of how many times I want that very ending until that very last full stop of the book.
And much as I love my name and wouldn't trade it for the world, I do think being called Rose must be the nicest thing ever.

But the 19th century is not the present day and will never be.
But shouldn't love and relationships between people transcend time and places and cultures and societies?
I do have the most naive, fairytale-perfect notion of love and relationships.
That's because I was brought up on a steady diet of wholesome books full of starry-eyed wonder by parents who til this very day hold hands and sprinkle kisses liberally on willing foreheads and cheeks and bestow hugs on weary bodies.

So my notion of love is simple.
Innocently naive.
Almost painfully easy.
Chemistry.
Sparks.
Kismet of the ultimate form.

Sure, you get world wars in the midst of all that kismet (coz what kinda supernova of epic proportions isn't full of hot air and blinding light?), but a sort of peace and calm settles as quickly as quarrels flash and thunder.
Because shouldn't love be gentle and kind and unwavering and forgiving and happy and true?
IMHO,  it's really that simple.

love deep, love hard, love true