Tag: Crying

Philosophy – “Why a Man is Weakened, not Weak, when Weeping” – 2/20/2021

“No wall is indomitable. To each inch that covers one, there might still be a crack, enough to shatter the entirety.”

– Modern Romanticism

Just as people might believe that age guarantees wisdom, it is the reverse. Wisdom guarantees age. As in, to apply wisdom, means survival is in the independent hands. To be wise, means that the second mistake, after learning for the first time, will not end this train of survival. We mean to people who shouldn’t make the same mistake twice, that their immaturity might be their burial. Same to weep, when the greatest weakness is to believe there is none. An immaturity as this, opens up all weaknesses. It opens. We release. We weep.

To weep, after much to keep concealed, is much like a dam being broken. It was weakened. A mistake having been made, to then the person ignoring it, is the immaturity to believe it won’t break them, when they believe it hasn’t weakened them. The second mistake of the same kind, will break them. It will force them to no longer ignore what they’ve concealed.

To a man, weeping is much like dying. To lose strength upon who he protected, what he held upon his shoulders. Being weakened, does not refer to weakness. To weakness, one has to be inherently so. Though, to be weakened, means that recognition for strength has been blinded. Of tears, that now burn the lids of the eyes, to water the cheeks that have long been like dried gardens. Of weakness, we are. Though, in being weakened, we have become.

A weak man, can only mean he is inherently so. This means there is no such thing.

Though, a weakened man has become this way. It was a “turning point”, so to speak. A simple realization, that a second mistake of the same kind has left him speechless, enough to no longer form an excuse. His immaturity has regressed him into childhood, once more. Perhaps, even infanthood, where if the grief is too castrating, will make him leave this world how he entered it. Crying.

In being weakened, there is no more to say. There is only much more to do. To grow. To mature.

Philosophy – “The Reason Men Weep” – 12/6/2020

“Never believe it is a choice to weep, for when a man does, he is no longer protecting himself. A choice to weep, would directly relate to force. When does a man force tears, other than to lie? When does a man cry so naturally before a woman, other than to be truthful?”

– Modern Romanticism

Men do not choose to weep. They choose to not weep. For their choices extend upon the protection of themselves, and were they to weep, they’d vehemently express their need to protect another. When a man hardens himself, to never weep, he is protecting what is within. If he cries for another, that is his expression to say the words, “I am protecting you, by making myself vulnerable.”

To say it is society to force a man to never weep, to encourage no tears from a man, is a falsehood. It is not society that tells a man to never weep. It is men who tell themselves, when facing their worst personal moments, to never weep. Men encourage themselves, teach themselves, force themselves to never weep. For this is how a man lies to himself, placing a mask upon his face that tells the world that truth does not need to be said, by him.

How are we to say that society is teaching us, when we are the makers to it? We are not the reflection of society, so much as it is a reflection of ourselves, of damage caused by our own hands. Of all things we see around us, of poverty that litters the streets, to sickness that withers a crippled man, is either the negligence or the deliberate acts, of us, to have caused it.

Humans have already given up their freedoms, if they believe some phantasmal force called “society” teaches them, and they are not in control of what can be created, instead of caused.

And, what happens when we break society? Do we break ourselves? As in, does a man find breaking down a wall, something that makes him cry? When he destroys a building or even his own marriage, is that only when he is meant to weep?

Must it be something a man can destroy, that makes him cry over its damages? What if, when upon a better moment, he can shed a tear over something meant to be protected?

Men weep over what can be protected, because he no longer protects himself. Soon as he buries himself in the feeling of self-punishment, saving those he loves from it, he weeps.

Quote – “The Third Reason to Cry: Out of Love” – 8/18/2020

“It is out of love that we weep not solely for misery, not solely for joy. These are tears that do not stain us, nor are they ones that we can easily forget. They are tears to merely remind us. Of what? Of what we are, truly at the center of ourselves. Loving ones. We build a shelter full of memories, constructing a heart out of gold. We say we are weak, that we are strong, in that residence of a heart. For as we stand like bronze, our tears come as silver, while our hearts are resplendent in gold that never wilts so long as we are structured, so long as we can break.”

– Modern Romanticism

Poem – “Desperate and Lonely” – Grief

As my arms extend outwards,
To reach for what I had lost,
There’s only the air,
And only a strand of hair,
To embrace,
I have touched the edge of a bed.

I have made my home a nest,
Of emptiness.
I have become one with
Loneliness and grief.
It is because of an agony,
One with so much melody,
Within her gruesome cries,
To my eyes.

And outwards, my arms grope,
For the burning rope,
Where she once hung,
As if executed,
Upon wooden gallows.
For the world to see, and to bury me,
Beneath a tide of grief.
Oh, love! Have you gone away from me?

The feeling of its infinity,
Mocks the place of my belonging.

There, too, is our destiny,
Where wishes surface in a pool of blood,
In a heart so burdened by memory.

Poem – “Bring me Hope” – Romance

She’s not in danger,
Not beneath me, the ruler to her
Naked empire; of boats upon smooth silk,
Of a navy that is swept in maddening winds
That speak in coldness of words.
Whispers that threaten and attempt
To subdue that which I desire.
They are voices from a different place.

She’s not in danger,
She, the woman whom I seek to gain,
As my love and my endless vision.
Her beauty makes a festival,
Her arms make a waterfall,
Her legs create the support.

Through a face and lips that show grace,
She says to me: –
“Unlike thou, who has faced perplexity,
I have felt so much love from thee,
There’s no unkindness in what you’ve shown,
Not from the murky nest of the mind you’ve grown.”

And so, her kindness comes to me,
As a mirror of what I behold to be.
Please, oh, beauty,
Offer me that hope,
Be the one I thirst for,
As the moon drains me, and the sun devours me.

Poem – “An Ode to a Buried Woman” – Romantic/Mournful

I cry often,
When I think of thy prettiness.
The emptiness of my facade,
When tears fall in short streams,
To be caught at the chin
That is where I swallow my words.

I choke back the emotions,
The loss to which I feel open.
I weep for about a minute,
And loosen my tears to the open.
I see swallows and pigeons alike,
Both hearing these calls.

I ride the current,
Down to where my end had begun,
And see with eyes so wide,
The world and it’s lifeless plenty.
The world seems so distant,
For we are an ocean apart.

We are the milk among the galaxy.
The disease among the many.
The beauty among the frenzy.
You have been the burning to my heart,
The blood that boils and flows.
And the enemy to which I love.