“No human, the doll, the tinkered instrument meant to snap either of strings to physical realness or of blinding gullibility, will perpetually be the case. All humans, the sponge, the tank flooded within that will break no matter the toughness of exterior. There is no skin the metal, nor face the mask that can guard nor conceal all things that do not hide on the surface.”
– Modern Romanticism
Weakness is not an insult. Weakness is our humanity. We are weak, when we do not want to be any longer strong. What a person protects within is always for the desire to strike out upon another, deemed weaker. The bully we can become craves to punish, even though a bully is weak, themselves. Human beings are cresting waves, as the shore is the shoulder. Tears are what push us to the brink, to the edge, that we cannot hold ourselves within. Since to hold ourselves within, is to keep humanity buried. Humans are the waves that are following a singular path. At some point, we crash, we fall, and it is the shoreline that listens.
When we recede, we have found parts of reminiscence, parts of realization, and parts of conclusion. As the waves we were, we folded, finding closure in the final chapter to a story once never told. In our recession, we see ourselves telling different tales. We return to comfort, a moment after, to see ourselves again licking the shoreline. We share tongue to ear, speech to a listener, washing our words at the edge of ourselves to see who will pick them up. Just as children who take the shells, listen to the ocean through them, we stay awake to keep the sentences moving.
Such words flow along the crystal currents, the same places we knew were once too deep to bring to the surface. Flowing if only to see that the moon will raise us, while the sun gave us a chance to do so when there was warmth. In the warmth we know is the shoulder to share distress, we find ourselves bleeding from a wound we had not before noticed. We find ourselves covered in our own warts, our own dirtied bandages, our own filth. We had ignored it, and now when the moon raises us to see the fullness of its face, we can bleed with purpose.
Modern Romanticism 