“There are disgraces in this world. Of those sorts who would dishonor an importance, place ambition above it, and never share an empire for which all that has been built, is now meant to be something of equal purpose; they are wretches. Let slip through the fingers the objective petulance that does not ever come close to the pair of eyes that wander observation into the soul of the one who should abide by importance.”
– Modern Romanticism
Men love, and then, men do not. A man’s life is merely an extension upon things thought to be important, until the love he finds at the crossroads allows him not to make anymore choices. His freedom, a forfeiture. His life, now in love’s hands, though only when he gives up what is no longer important.
A pair of eyes. Slender and outstretched hands. A dashing smile. Of garments that surround a figure that’s been too often ignored, for its beauty. Of vulnerability that gives weight to the wind that stings the cheeks. A man is meant to love these things, and then some. Whereas, there are men who leave. There are men who depart. There are these men, and they are disgraces. No love is ever unimportant enough to one day wish for freedom, from it. The man who departs his love, was a coward, and was someone who finds the objectively trivial as showing more worth than what was found.
From love, to the relationship, what is more important than its envisioned force, meant to wield us, meant to save us? Importance, to a man, should be it. There is no other definition to “importance”, other than what it stands for. Importance. It is a word that describes nothing else, other than where love is placed. Of the one so vulnerable, where love is placed, where arms surround, where sadness is resolved, as that is importance.
Love, unto what is important, is the eternity for which would make a true man unable to leave, unable to yearn for freedom. And, should anything be broken, he would fix it, and not take to his former, childlike ambitions that are indeed immature enough to pertain to the toddler. A man who could fix what is broken at his vocation, in politics, upon his inferior trinkets in the garage, though cannot recreate nor rebuild what has been shattered in his love, is the disgrace that the world must spit on.
For there are many things said to hold worth, though none of them that are so material can be compared to the love in a certain man’s life. Nothing material holds worth through its limited duration, automatically contrasting from the eternity meant to be part of love.
Modern Romanticism 