Modern Romanticism

He takes his time leaking his presence into her. Just as she had done, before this time he is taking, the same as he’s taking something away. He stands. She’s sitting. This isn’t submissiveness from her. This is acceptance.

A better strand of hair, from her, would turn grey. He favors honesty above nearly all other things. Looking at her, her face that’d recoil from the thinnest rays of light, she looks to something else. She’s looking at a door. Though, it’s neither the front nor the back door. It’s a door to the bedroom where these two figures are located. Still, it’s an exit, but it’s not a final one.

Out from his lips, he spills not a tantrum, not even an expression of resentment, but honesty. Honesty can look like many things. Perhaps one can call it akin to the sun, being a source of white light where white is all colors combined. She’ll look away from him, though her ears are not plugged. She hasn’t moved her hands from her lap. As he speaks, her lips tremble for what she knows she’s avoided. Even in this moment, as he, and only he, takes his time in speaking, she distracts her focus to be upon that door. It’s not enough. How can it be enough?

And how can what he’s saying ever also be enough, as if what’s been stirring within him will run out in this eruption? Some volcanoes go extinct, never to burst through the earth’s crust the geysers of molten heat. Though, some other volcanoes stay as they are. They are always angry. Will they one day go extinct? Perhaps. But we cannot predict that.

In the same manner, we cannot predict when this man’s fuming anger at this woman will end. Is it her fault that his anger is as it is? It might be, and one might also believe he can express his frustration in a calmer way. Or one can believe that calmness is an impossibility in this scenario. His rage, the way it is hurled at her, has trapped her in its truths. For when a person is enraged, there is not much that is held back. Honesty is all that comes forth from wrath. Some things that are said might be better left unsaid, though they are words of truth regardless.

She listens to him. She listens, because she cannot find strength to leave. His anger is churned in such a way as if he’s tolerated her avoidance of it for long enough. It appears be to his turn to express, to reveal what’s caused his personality such turmoil as if, in this second, he’s unrecognizable even to himself.

To rage, the honesty of all thoughts kept to the cage of one’s skull, soaked into the sponge that is one’s mind, it comes out even should both skull and mind blend together to become a stone. Squeeze it enough, pressure it enough, and what flows out is both the blood of discontent and the water of despair.