Creative – Modern Romanticism

Short Prose – 300 Words – “The One who Grieves…” – Romanticism – 3/8/2021

He believed more in betrayal, than that of love. Watched, as the stars kissed his cheeks. Waited, as the haze melted him into a portrayal of surrender. Laughed, as the clouds mocked him among their height.

He kept something. A locket. Of a face with two roses for cheeks, blush for the sake of the lips, and two eyes that always made him weep. What a love that lays frozen before the petals. Skipping heartbeats and sadness that stirs in the trenches of his own veins. Blood flows, though to him, remains idle. Just a face that no longer moves. Two eyes, that never truly look back.

Standing before a lake, his heart is now just one more stone at the bottom of it. He wishes to know the world, for its end. Bending a knee, and his hard entrance to the earth will cover him. A minor leak from his eyes, to then regret.

Pangs of dread reveal him to motion, of nothing near. Bright crystal upon the lake that evokes the frozen tension, keeping him drowned. Stillness and itself, of a man with his locket, wastes seconds on the beach where pebbles are scattered at his feet. Precious moments, that could have been given to sheer recollection, rows a boat across this lake of his repeated sighs. Of sighs that whisper, of those that speak themselves in their repetition to shift with the faint hint of fog upon the lake’s surface. He is endless, both in thoughts, among his grief.

Where is the world to embrace him?

Where is the shouting command, from a Heaven that looks down? Where are the waiting arms, to welcome him back to warmth?

Find all else, and then he shall shatter.

Walking without sunlight, battered by the moonlight in his heart, and watered by the endless raindrops that shower from nowhere, he finds himself trapped in the debris. Wasted, with no mouth to truly speak, as there are no eyes to ever read.

Excerpt from a Romantic Novel – “9 Months to Live” – 2/21/2021

“Repetition is a cruel splash of the hardest hail upon our faces. Of life, where moments matter more than dreams. Of love, where sadness speaks more than the moments that indeed fade. For life, a person will always gain. For love, a person will always lose.”
– Peter A.W. Wyatt

Short Prose & An Example of a Blogger’s Life – 200 Words – “For your Love” – Romanticism – 2/19/2021

For what will transpire, I will breathe a thousand more words. Though, the one that is saved, is straight from the heart.

While you were true, I merely lied half of the time to reach you. While you were real, only half of my heart stuck to this. Though, I could cry upon all the times I can see your face. I could roar tears down my cheeks, creating rapids from the rush. From meager feelings, then to sincerity.

My lies, were to protect you from the world. From their faces, they shot distrust.

From their eyes, they looked to you with loathing.

When the rope was wrapped around your throat, nothing of me could process the guilt. For I was too busy falling apart.

You trusted me, while I lied to keep you safe.

Back in your arms, while poetry drips from the ends of my fingers, I can see Spring. I can comprehend renewal. I can stop feeling numb, of mind, and of soul. I can kiss all of your tears away. I can relive what was once so true, in the heat of a month. I can taste the warmth of your mouth.

I can devote.

Psychology – “Why only Positive Emotions Generates Creative Energy” – 2/18/2021

“Depression is not a cue for productivity. Nor is grief the cue for a need to neglect the immediate sensations. We discover something so pure, as the positive emotions, only when everything we currently feel can be converted over to inspiration.”
– Modern Romanticism

If research tells us that both positive and negative emotions can generate creative energies, then all should immediately go to believe this as a wrong.

What depressed person wants to be productive, or to be therapeutic with their creativity? While the mind is consumed by those negative emotions, we do not even press one button on the keyboard. We have no energy even for that, nor to simply motion ourselves to the seat. Because, there are those who experience troubles, enough to douse them in those depressive thoughts. They linger and dwell among them, much so that there’s hardly enough movement without another to keep them somewhat less restricted.

How can depression, which limits the person to smallness, ever drive them on with the inspiration that gives them the desire to live, for as long as possible? If negative emotions can, at all, offer us the creative energies enough to be productive, so that a day does not become wasted, then it will not. We move, through being creative. For to create, is to make movement, through the inspiration that allows us to design.

It is to next say that all energies, enough to be creative, must be positive. That means the depressed person must be able to convert sadness to inspiration. Then, there is only the hope that directly relates to what life represents. It is a repetition. Of repeated motions that only become truly tired, when we must rest for eternal time, upon death.

It has to be a conversion. To change or transfigure negative emotions to being positive, as other buried positivity becomes lifted and aware to the person, there is the inspiration that generates pure creativity.

We have no desire to be creative, to be productive, when depression has siphoned us of all energy.

How can “research” believe that negative emotions can generative creative energies, when it is always inspiration that keeps the movement within life, to be productive?

Philosophy – “The Greatest Limitation of Science” – 10/30/2020

“Science has no purpose, other than the benefit for the flawed form. Yet, to make the form perfect, is to also make the mind imperfect. We are insane, when we realize not our own limitations.”
– Modern Romanticism

Mind and body, where the former is perfect, as the latter is not. No science comprehends the mind, in totality. As it is, all science questions existence, especially of God, because it is limited to what it can see. For what it can see, it is what science can work with, can alter into a different shape.

We are, with an obsession upon diversity, absent of our understanding of limitation. To all human imagination, it is casted solely upon the form. The human form, so limited, so flawed, only because it is visible. Perfection is invisible to human eyes. Therefore, no science will ever comprehend the mind, in totality.

The human mind, perfect, while the human form is imperfect. It is then that science thinks to make the form perfect, though is always at the cost of sanity.

What is sane, in this world, is the mind. Though, our sanity is lost, upon witnessing the alteration of what is visible. We are never altered upon viewing an alteration of perfection. Among all things perfect, it is never changed, first. Human forms change, first, resulting in the alteration of perfection in the mind. This is to say that sanity equates to perfection. It is to say that the “Creator”, of God, must be a being to relate to a “beginning”.

We are sane, we are perfect. Yet, upon the continual need to alter the form, force diversity, is to shove the needed realization of our limitations. For in one way or another, we will realize them.

Human minds possess imagination, though only for what is imperfect. We imagine the imperfect, the flawed, to become the perfect, the flawless. Again, upon the perfection of imperfection, we become insane.

This is all why love is said to be a madness. That, to become perfected, accepted, mended of wounds to the touch of that love, we become maddened.

Excerpt – Chapter I – “My Anger, the Addiction” – Romance – 10/20/2020

I have lifted. I have always cried. Of stones that were carried in my arms, while tears fell from them, soon as they were squeezed.

I was expected. To release truth, I was expected. Like love was something I could fall through, beating my heart, burning in my skull. I released. I let go myself, to the winds, where my truth, my outpouring cries could indeed be heard.

Love. The only emptiness to be had, webbing my heart like I was the fly. To its death, and then, to be held inside my mind, as if God were the spider.

I do not bleed. I only have lost.

Love is something I can exhale, to embrace the remnants of something so related to vapor. Of some face held, to some field wept upon, to raise stems with the petals. They can all lay at my feet, those petals, and still appear as fallen autumn leaves. What is my depression, as only a kind of ache, without its understood ending? No story leaves pages emptied, just like the painting cannot be made with blankness remaining.

Love is that, for I can see something that is so blackened. So much darkened, in a void that was once colored, though is now the opposite. I hold a strand of my own hair. I hold it, as I perceive its grayness. How can it be, when I am still so young?

The years behind me, moving forward to place my steps, I can see no light. Like no light were waiting for the ship I captain, to be set safely ashore. As if no island had been waiting with a weeping sort, to welcome home my presence. As if I were to become a stranded vessel, having hit the shore with an concussive impact. I shattered against stone, sounded in tune with the frailty of my own heart.

For it is that he dreams. He melts himself, masking a future by what is behind him, hidden in the snow. Love is a shower of cold for him, whether too many hidden secrets have shared the warmth of ice, or the glints of the fresh snow. If too many hints of a nothingness have grasped at him, like memories of what had been, then it can be no longer.

How alike, to a woman, where his memories are forged. How so much similar to a womb, they are released, though born backwards? Strangled by the stem of sustenance, by the umbilical cord. So much the image of a leader hanged. No future, for nothing of the head can carry his body forward.

Pain is his sustenance, breathing on fumes that choke. Fusing himself with the stench, that only ever a certain history gave for intoxication.

How alike, to a woman, where his face shows itself for a kiss. So much for a kiss, that rips apart at this woman’s face. It crumbles, as each fold of a lip is tied together with her. Two faces, mourning over the loss of the self, the loss of self-understood truth. How breakable, the both of them, when they never turned within the grave to see each other.

Upon the death of some stained truth, love became their wish, once more, in the eternity of sleep. In a death of hearts, love motioned them into stillness. Their faces would not receive the other, in any conceived smile.

Passive, in a dark corner of his personal world, where this man shelters himself. He churns, like some somber child. His face speaks the same language as his quivering hands.

How does the world close itself, of its bottomless horrors, when this man merely wishes to fly? Running offers him comfort, though to only more shadows? Love does not ever start another fire, over the sick and loud memories that stammer his voice.

His eyes hold music boxes, while his fingers twang the heartstrings of some instrument recorded to the former. The return of simplistic playback, the music that possess no authentic value, controls him in his heart. Why has darkness formed an empty road? Why has death made his life walk backwards?

How is it, that with eyes opened wide, he can see no light?

Short Prose – 150 Words – “Stretch your Buried Wings” – Romance – 10/19/2020

My love, where you sing your cries on an empire of your Hellish loneliness. How can the churches believe you? How can your smile ever be parted, from you?

I will bleed along with you, my love. Treasure yourself, for the funeral cannot be far off. I will kiss your hand, for as long as I can. Before it drops, like another bough from a tree, I will kiss your hand, holding up your arm.

You are the tree, grown sick. I believed that the years would carry us. Yet, I must carry this weight of your fall. No wings so deeply buried in the earth, can ever be lifted, without your leaving.

You have opened the gates, for your arrival. But, will God love you more than me? Will God ever believe in our world? How does His name escape me, though yours won’t?

You will become an angel, born from dust.

Philosophy – “Why Creative Non-Fiction is an Oxymoron” – 10/14/2020

“A lie is imagination, burning an image into sight only ever convincing. The truth, however, is something that wallops you so hard, you will find it shocking.”
– Modern Romanticism

How far can a writer take creativity, when it comes to a fact? To comprehend creativity, itself, as unlimited in the human imagination, will make the creativity in non-fiction, be limited. However, it won’t be long before something so non-entertaining as the truth, becomes the distraction of a lie.

How can we split the creativity from the non-fiction, so that the former does not overlap the latter?

A lie is always distracting. We divert our attention from the truth, from the facts we should know, when we are entertained. Simple pleasures. Whoredom. Pornography. These are lies, meant to distract us. Distractions should always be considered the world’s abundance of lies, though only from the person who centers them for attention.

If we are creative with the truth, what is non-fiction, becomes fiction. If we are creative with the bitterness of logic, then it becomes the sweetness of each emotion. In today’s world, where distractions are seemingly the enterprise for things deemed as a “necessity”, why do we deny “creative non-fiction” as an oxymoron? If it is not an oxymoron, then what is the imagination? Is it not a realm where lies are constructed, as fiction? What a writer makes up, versus what is the truth, is how we can differ reality from unrealities.

All amount of creativity can breed an infinite amount of lies. To know what a lie is, look to creation, itself. All things constructed, versus all things originated, is the difference between a lie and a truth. We can look to the beginning, to find the truth. We can look to the middle-ground, to discover lies. The creator is truth. The creation is fiction, or a lie.

Short Prose – 300 Words – “Broken Heart Surgery” – Romance – 10/11/2020

Emotion. Aflame, with attempted designation to the rope. The rope, for it cannot be cut with a knife. It cannot, for it cannot hold its weight’s own will. Its weight, of a form that wishes for death. A death that would leave countless tears to rot at the feet of their rejecter. Love waits. It waits, though spends years in the search. Has it found whatever whisper is so different from the wind?

She will plummet. She will fall to see her reflection, in an ocean she has spilled from her eyes. She will plummet to the glass, the recognition of her tiredness. She will soak herself in what she despises.

I can. I can cut that rope. I can loosen her from her end. I can bring tears back to her eyes. I can lift this whole ocean.

I can open her, for another time. Trust? Is it so much to yearn for, for how fragile she has become? Dust cannot offer trust. I am a man with regrets that stand at his feet, and do not rise to meet his nostrils. I doubt myself, and these fires will not be put out.

We loved with blue to the oceans, and green to the skies. We grew thorns that all died when the petals came loose. We breathed many scenes of our stories, where dreams were our tokens to a better life. Outside, we were nothing. Inside, we were everything. But, a new tear has fallen.

I cannot bandage this wound, anymore. I cannot burn the rope, to let her down.

My eyes sting with jealousy. Dreams crash, as the waves that recede back to realization. A recognition, for a mirror with fragments already so unlike whatever beauty she possessed. A recognition that stands on those fragments, bleeding from the nakedness of stilled feet.

Broken heart surgery. Broken heart melody. Broken heart catastrophe. I am ended, as she is beginning her transfer.

Poem – “Stranded on my Knees” – Religion – 10/5/2020

How much blood
Can erase the letters on these worn pages?
I have become something else
To the bitterness
Of one heart, written in the soil,
Of one droplet of crimson,
Fed to my mouth.
He glistens on the cross,
He stays there,
Sheltering his own eyes with the sun,
Finding a place where I cannot run
To make my home.

Upon my knees,
Stranded in senseless belief,
For faith has never been my sculpture.
Blood runs wildly,
Wickedly
From my faucet of death.
I can keep love
Close to heart, eating tears to my drowning.
I can break,
Though can I build?
Can I see scenery
That never wilts?

Like a flood of everlasting
Terror to my face,
Trust can sculpt itself,
It can sculpt itself
To then have only the body drowned,
Never the features,
Never the mask,
Never the lies
I have swallowed whole,
Like one faceless serpent
Who can shed his skin,
Though never the tears to the soil.

Pain is the only emptiness
That I cannot feel.
Not like him,
Not him.

Quote – “Not for the Sake of Imperfection” – 9/17/2020

“To him, of her, he could not call what he’s seen as imperfections. He could not, for he viewed with an eye that held love to its sight. Almighty in its department, love perfected those imperfections, and they were no longer able to become broken.”
– Modern Romanticism

Quote – “A Tale of Grief” – 9/17/2020

“Whispering through the soil, would ricochet the sheer emptiness that pertains to his defeat. Her defeat, too, runs through the dust and debris of the gathered earth, of miles into endlessness. One word from his mouth would not rupture a thing. One word from his mouth would not ever damage another thing. One finger, or one hand, and nothing. Nothing else can be broken, when the heart is. These are the fragments of the deepest reflection, while only now is the mind looking back. Memories are not shelter. They are full of rain. Only the reignition of his pain, like an engine refueled, can transmit all knowledge into full, gleaming awareness.”
– Scenery’s Grief