Chaos.

Once upon  a time, I used to think the idea of being a chaotic, beautiful mess was terribly romantic, in a kind of fascinating and devastating sort of way. 

To embrace hedonism and anarchy and passion with a ferocity that scares away all your old demons with new ones. To languish away on sofas and swear at the banality of the weather. To hold ticking bombs because that soft staccato countdown is the only thing that can still make your heart race with anticipation. To vortex disaster, to make it disappear into the void where all such disasters go as they patiently await you again & again & again.

Here's to choking the dull rankness of unexpressed artistry and unrealized genius with your bare hands around the neck of a glass bottle. Here's to laughing with your mouth [alone], to lying on the bathroom floor [alone] because there's really nowhere else to go. 

But it is not romantic. 
It is not romantic at all.
What it wants is romanticism.