“Look at me,” says the man, continuing to speak from his heart, “I’m always fighting for what will one day fade, always holding onto what will one day pass between my fingers. Why do I do this?” It was his mentor he spoke to, also his friend, also the one who is dying before him. A teacher, a healer, and now a symptom to his confusion. That latter man responds, “Who knows? Maybe we’ll both find the answer when we move on.”– Modern Romanticism
“It is the coward’s approach to mock that which is dead, out of untold amount of time the living critic did not speak to the now-deceased whomever while they were alive.”– Modern Romanticism
Remembering the dead, as we will, and then we recall only ever the successes of how they lived. For there is only one way in which a person can be remembered, when dead. It is by how they lived, not by how they have died. And, there is only one way that a person can fail. It is by being dead, that now their state of death cannot respond to the world’s scorn.
Scorning the dead is a pointless maneuver. Speaking ill of the dead is a pointless maneuver. Even criticizing God, or what science might say is obsolete, is a pointless maneuver. Whatever and whoever is dead should be remembered for its successes. It is because it is always the coward’s role to mock or ridicule what cannot retort back, in return. Why speak ill of what cannot talk words back to the ridiculing person? If a critic speaks ill of the Mona Lisa, when Da Vinci is dead and cannot hear the words, what point is there, other than the reveal of cowardice to everyone nearby?
The dead are silent. The dead are still. To speak ill of them, perhaps spit on their graves, shout to the Heavens out of disbelief on why such a person did die, is pointless because one shall receive no answers. One should have, as one could have, as one would have if they were hardened against the returned criticism, speak their words to life, before death encompassed it.
The one failure for any person, is by their state of death. Among all battles, there is only one to truly lose. That is death. There is, for life, its successes. To not be the coward, though to remember the times in which they were good for what life stands for, is how one “moves on” without bitterness.
Slowness to sobriety. Fill me up with the porcelain from your eyes, with the sentences that perspire upon the lids. Keep me afloat in your drunken state, in the arms that swim, while nails begin to dig. You let fall your fingers to pierce the wood of a coffin, while I am settled in the furnace of death’s warmth. You tear. You yank. All of you wants me to lift this side of myself, though I am too heavy. I am simply wearing my tears as crystal or diamonds, though the wealth could not be brought anywhere else.
Futures with you, all crushed. Slowness to sobriety. Stay with your own, the fevers upon your cheeks where kisses were laid by others, among the snow. Among the debris, the dust is yours to lay blankets over. Express your hope, where flowers are fallen. Keep your eyes closed, when the sun begins to set.
A funeral demands a winter. There is a raven, among the clouds. There is ice around that animal’s eyes. There is all that, while talons have scarred my symptomatic heart. I once felt love, as though a sickness. Offered of friendship, presented in the ribbons in radiance. Offered of another heart, asymptomatic of the tendrils of love’s blight. A head caught in a curtain, with nothing transparent around. Here, to being lost, where love presented its cost.
I find myself in a heath, where winds come weathering my ankles, keeping my stance a sore one. Funerals walk alongside myself, in the depression of abandonment. Friendship tossed me, overboard. I disused myself, against the coming waves, gifted of the flowing and teeming winds. Coldness, as an encasement, once then to drink of a drunken stare, last to see me drowning. Of an anxious embezzlement, being that theft to a broken and useless heart. I disused myself. I fed myself to the fanned flames.
Fever and winter, with raven talons to scratch my worn heart. Like a cotton shirt, ripped with ease, much among the brush that grows the same for the garments of no real warmth. Just a yearning for summer, of being appropriate against the idea of winter. In being buried, I became the blanket. Just another sadness, among the heat, within the grain, drunken upon the waters that come collecting to me. Into me, those waters, as they silence my pain, if only for a moment while the rest floods on.
“All lives are built upon Earth, or the place where others fell, or the place where others bled, or the place where others died.”– Modern Romanticism
As death should be understood, it is what gives life meaning.
People look to life, on its own, as though there can be meaning of each beating heart, or among the movement to each person.
Though, familiar life, being of recognizable signs as the beating heart or the moving limbs, has no meaning without understanding stillness. Of death, being understood of what stillness represents, holds us to find appreciation for the opposite.
Do the dead cry? Do the dead remember? They do not. Therefore, it is up to life to remembering the living. Or, among the dead, it is up to life to remember a deceased individual for how they lived, not by how they died.
We do not remember failure. The living forgives failure, soon when the life has died. As in, we could only ever view the dead monster, for how much we despised them in life, with compassionate eyes. We are compassionate toward the vulnerability either of what could easily die, or of what is already dead.
It is therefore not love that dies, though life. And, it is love that is opposite from death, not life. That is because love protects life, from death. Though, upon death, life remembers the moments spent, and then cries over the sheer memory towards what is now absent.
We cannot relive those moments for their absence. Though, we can indeed remember. We can remember what cannot be relived through anyone else.
As death gives meaning to life, we are alive out of those who loved us, who were willing to die for our sake. Those who died, among each person no longer alive, are of a sameness. Though, in how we are alive, that is what represents meaning. It is the meaning that represents our gratitude for the necessity of death. That is, we are only ever grateful to be alive, because of our ability to stand. And, it is always that we stand through the support of those who died. That support, of course, represents the earth we stand upon.
“What life to live, without bleeding? How does a person feel alive, if they are never wounded?”– Modern Romanticism
The arrogant fool is already dead, while possessing such a mentality. To say the words, “God is dead”, by the Atheist, is to say that the arrogant human will die. That is the imperfection of us. Death. Human imperfection is proven objective, upon when we disregard it. We become egoists, and believe ourselves invulnerable, or one day to attain the level of perfection.
Then, that person dies, due to that someone else defeated them. Someone acted out to usurp them, in their egoist ways. When they were not embracing of other’s flaws, it was only due to that they were not in realization of their own. When another saw their egoism as a lack of empathy, they took down this falsehood.
Though, what life does one live, upon this godhood? If God is ever dead, then God was never existent. Thus, we understand both the Abrahamic teachings of an eternal God of Love, among our imperfect selves. For we are unable to “live”, without possessing wounds. It is the same when we say of Christ, “He lived.” The human lives, for it makes God never a Creation. Rather, God is a Creator.
Love never manipulates. Rather, love would test what would manipulate another. Creator upon Creation, as this is the test of a child dealing with their sibling. Of Cain and Abel, it is the same. The first murder, of no trust and mere jealousy. Cain led Abel, out of deception or manipulation, to a field where he struck him with a rock. Love tests, as it is imperfection that makes us realize we are not in control.
No human lives, without realization of not being a god. No godhood, and we are accepting of flaws. No godhood, and we are embracing of each other. If the first mortal were to become immortal, it would reverse the fear of life to the fear of death. We’d become soldiers of our own misfortune. We’d become desirers of our own end. And, we’d prove, most of all, that we cannot die without fearing something else. All those with suicidal intentions, fear life, due to this logic. In fearing life, we embrace death. We embrace what has always made us imperfect, though now makes us perfect in a decision we cannot part from. Therefore, in saying the words, “God is dead” is to say that a human god would have no existence, would be dead.
Human perfection is not attainable due to that death cannot precede life, unless for the continuation or fertilization of it. As we enter this world, we were born from a mother. We were born from a woman who was, and is, fertile. When we die, we exit into the soil, pertaining also to fertility. However, no life has died, before it was born, making love the only thing ever to be eternal.
“Pragmatism cannot at all survive, in its purist way with survivalist methods, without an artistry that would uplift the hopes of the pauper, rather than lower them.”– Modern Romanticism
If one cannot understand it in clearness, both the arts and sciences go hand-in-hand. As in, both creativity and progress are always unified. One cannot simply state that to do away with arts, one is left with progress, or left with pragmatism. For to be one with the survivalist approach, is to the sink oneself in the mere living of it. When one lives in survival, one buries themselves in survival. One does not, as art would do, rise out of it.
To understand what the arts do upon life, it is to inspire truth to be formed of it. We live, so that we may not die. For what would be the point in living, if death was upon our doorstep? The human will to survive often comes into contact with the acceptance of inevitable defeat. That is when we embrace those closest to us. As it is, we will embrace those who were never close to us, whether of familial or through friendship, simply because they are a fellow human. We do not wish to die, alone. We deny the end, as long as possible, because the human need to be loved or to be kept inspired, is as strong as death.
If one holds pragmatism in lone importance, then one is leaning themselves towards the most pragmatic thing to do. And, that is, to end something. What is the ending? It is death. For rather than to prolong a thing, which would pertain to the continued existence of life, death comes along as pragmatic. When we call upon God to aid us during a time of desperation, we wish to be lifted. These words have been written everywhere. Love lifts us. Towards where? Towards infinity. We wish to last for as long as possible, before our end arrives.
We are beautiful, and not anymore beautiful than another, unless we have not been loved. As beautiful beings, we desire acceptance and appreciation for talents, for skills, by way of gratitude. In the name of gratitude, art has its calling. The artist who believes they create for themselves, does not. All viewers to art are seeing what has been made, with grateful eyes. Art is there for gratitude’s sake, and as it would lift life through inspiration, becomes the same as a mother who could be grateful for her child’s birth. Her grateful smile is for the gratitude of this successful creation, born from her womb. Creation of art, is creation of life. More creation of art, is made for the continual existence of life, through the inspiration it evokes.
For it is never pragmatic to prolong a life, as it is never pragmatic to prolong suffering. However, through love upon life, one comprehends that through the struggles, unification of understanding between life and death, is meant to be. People are meant to survive. Though, through love or the arts, people can be uplifted to greater realms.
Can you lose the light
Before I go on
With the womb I shelter myself in,
With the hollowness I place my voice?
Your tears stream a river for my defeat,
Down beneath the crevices,
Further down to the undertowing
Nature of these footsteps.
I blow dark kisses
Through the ignited blue,
I want to seek guidance
From something brand new.
I shelter myself
In a void,
Forgotten by my life
With its warbling heartbeat.
Will you lose the light
To make me recede
Like the glacier losing its path,
Like the coldness falling back to a mother’s warmth?
I am the glade that never quits sighing
Between the branches above,
The reeds around,
The grass beneath my heavy toes.
Run the earth off the slope.
Is the lighthouse amidst this storm,
As I rock on the ocean’s floor,
As I run through a wilderness
Of my loneliness,
To my tomb.
“The Danger of Blurring Lines”
A common human way with our Nature is to believe one should have a choice in any matter, for freedom’s sake. To possess a falsified sense of freedom means to have the reasoning in escaping from the task of being responsible. To be responsible, means to be logical. To hold reason in one’s grasp for a weapon against responsibility, means to invent excuses for why one should not ever be such. It is then to say to have a choice in reference to responsibility, means to always steer in the direction away from it. A person of choice, wants paths. They do not wish to be led down a path, without their choice.
Another common human way with our Nature is to say that what one can choose, cannot be controlled by another. It is this that states a person has freedom of choice. Though, within responsibility, there is no freedom. Among a nation, to throw “responsibility” upon the shoulders of a citizen, force them against their will to do as the nation says, causes rebellion. To force a collective group to think, to behave, to motion on a certain path, defines slavery. Among the individual, however, should they rebel against their own personal responsibility, their immaturity has compelled them to want a choice away from Justice.
For the self, a person has a choice, or a personal endeavor to see a random change to themselves. Among the individual, a person is choosing their path for their life. Among the collective of individuals that makes up a nation or any population, there is only slavery being made of each of them, should such a nation desire control over all. To take away freedom, means to do so by force. Forced unity is a resemblance to slavery, when that system rejects the individual’s motives to earn it. A nation does not gift a person their freedom. For all true freedom, is earned, making the slave only such when they belong in a collection of their same kind. A person can indeed make themselves the slave, should they neglect the idea of earning freedom, and continue to believe it as a gift.
Between Justice and Vengeance, a human who truly fights for the former, does not take to human desire. Desire embraces a path for the self, stepping on the side of Vengeance, over Justice. Justice takes a path for others, stepping into a realm where sacrifice, honor, and selflessness takes place. A person offers wisdom, keeps structure, and above all, forgives enemies, upon when they know that retaliation will cause a war. To feel anger, means to want retaliation. It then becomes a feud, of opposite contrasts, where no closeness is found.
Without a strict focus on the objective definition of Justice, there is only the distance of prejudice that sparks the paranoia of a person’s next vengeful action. For within one action of Vengeance, comes the next. After the next, comes the third action, causing the cycle that repeats, incessantly. Nothing quits this cycle, until forgiveness takes place. There is always fear in it, because fear equates to the distance of lacking forgiveness. Forgiveness involves foresight into knowing that the future will only involve further bloodshed, if such a forgiving behavior is never implemented.
Any human’s first instinct is to be selfish, to feed themselves, to clothe themselves, during a time of survival. It is because of this, that when lines are blurred, Justice is never discovered. For who buries a corpse that had fallen, from being alive, without another’s hands to do it? Who is the Vengeful sort to do this, when they only aim to beat the dead body? Forgiveness has only one objective: to forgive the past, of all experiences during when that corpse was alive. It can be said of the same for anyone, that when selfishness become selflessness, we bury, we forgive, though cannot forget, what had fallen. As any burial, it is a selfless act, like forgiveness. If one were to forget, one would not be able to forgive a haunting memory. It’d never be an ability of a person.
As it is, if to forget was possible, and never forgiveness, then no human would possess a mind stored with the memories of the past. Each fragment of knowledge is a memory, kept in mind from being taken either from a book, or from word-of-mouth. It makes the lacking of fear of any individual, when forgiveness and compassion can be the things offered towards memories that haunt. We know, through memory. Therefore, we can know, through forgiveness, when we understand that what haunts another is at the same level of torment as what haunts us. When humans comprehend that they’re both in fear, both vulnerable, then love can take place, by knowing that not one is stronger than the other.
The ignorance of a human, in contrast to knowledge, resonates in the fear within the distance between people. To what one knows of another, makes knowledge. To what one does not know of another, makes ignorance. This much, is obvious. However, to be fearful, would also mean to be ignorant.
It is the case of any murderer who kills their victim, without compassion, through such ignorance and fear. If they had not been knowledgeable, then they had been ignorant. Their fear enters the picture by way of not stretching outside the realm of selfish discontent of the world, being the murderer’s mindset, to be compassionate. For if the murderer were compassionate, were brave, and not fearful, enough to step outside what has shut them inside their mind, they’d discover knowledge.
It is to be Xenophobic, that the fear a person feels, is only because they do not have the slightest interest in knowing someone. For in being too comfortable with what they already know, they are fearful in knowing more.
For why else would a person not wish to know another, if they did not fear what they possibly could hear of them? It is the greatest pang of fear by a human, to hear something from a source one does not like, and be shocked by its truth. As it is, all truth comes from sources where the fearful one does not wish to acknowledge can be the onset to a unity outside of such fear. If they were to see another, know another, being one other individual, they’d form a bond. That is a fear that comfortable humans do not wish to face.
To be vengeful, or to cling to the side of Vengeance, is unlike fear. One knows, through the personal desire to be vengeful, that the one such Vengeance will be directed upon, has committed an act of betrayal. It is knowledge that acts as the motive for Vengeance, not ignorance. Though, to what the vengeful person is ignorant of, is something that will not birth the forgiveness needed to halt such a cycle of Vengeance. That is the further knowledge needed to complete the tale, bring about the death, and the life is laid to rest. It is the same when one forgives to break a cycle of Vengeance, that one can forgive what can no longer be destroyed, being a corpse or ended life.
A person’s task to be responsible would then mean to be the one who forgives, and breaks the cycle of irresponsibility and Vengeance. It is in the knowledge of who we have forgiven, that we can lay to rest whatever has been strained by hurt, for however long was the time.
In the manner of personal desire, a person does not act responsible. To blur the line between responsibility and irresponsibility, or logic and reason, or Justice and Vengeance, means to, again, fall on the area that is most suited to human instinct. Selfishness is a part of human instinct. Since it is, one should never compare love to the instincts of a human.
When it is about protection, however, of a loved one, that is instinct. It is only due to that love objectively makes the pair unified. They are one, meaning that by one of the two loved ones to protect the other, they are protecting themselves.
All choice, therefore, is not based on the coming death or the coming love. In death, there is no choice, but to understand that it will come. In truth, death is more predictable than love. For what we control, is always our own lives. We are compelled to understand ourselves, as we pull who we love always for a union of singularity. Though, when trust becomes a factor, it is love that becomes limited, only when one now begins to fear something they never wish to involve in their lives.
Can he wait? Can he satiate a thirst that continues to mark his lips with the dryness of salt? In that, he is holding onto the ocean. He is washing himself in her running suds. A love as glorious as the only-believed infinity of the universe, becoming finite just when we comprehend life cannot go with it. What love in the world? It is eternal. What of life? It is never immortal.
A look. A frenzy. A love that hungers, and one that never strays far from youth. It is him, this old man, whose wife is of a similar age. Gray strands peak at their roots, and fold over her face.
She is dying.
She is a web of closed sighs, and fallen breaths. She is losing her life, moment by precious moment, while his hands are latched upon her own. Just a breath that exits a pair of her repeatedly-kissed lips, once every minute. Another pair, of his own, is pressed against her palm every two minutes.
She is for the gray love. This is a sunless pair. A spectacle of radiant flame beneath the clouds. In love, in only the blue bliss of their extended vows to heavenly entrances, makes the two.
Oh, love! Do not die. You will suffocate us, if we count the breaths until you let us go.
He is there to console himself. The rest of all, denies. The air, the birds upon ledges to windows outside of here, and the passersby, all mock the overtones of gray. They do so, by ignoring it. Gray skin. Gray eyes. Gray hair. Gray clothes. Gray shoes. Yet, a heart of gold is shining somewhere. Of them both, it is true this gold is here, and her beauty has not died.
What breath will go so soon? What beating of a heart will end so quickly? Will he notice it gone, should he blink?
It is a waiting game. For her to release the last gale, the last breeze, the last squall from her lips, gives him aches to his old bones.
Like wind, like sea, as he then places his gaze upon her face. Old as it is, though remaining as eternal in motion, in youth, as the sea is young and cannot truly be tainted. Time. For to clean, requires moments. Though, how would this man see her face, polluted, or stained, by age? By the taint of something external to have touched it, would be equivalent to the hand of another man, reaching forth. Such could spark rage, a storm of his own liking to befall that alien man.
Oh, ocean. Oh, tempest. Love is a storm that subsides, only when the worriment no longer has thunder. It can die down to a flicker. It will not fully extinguish. For love has its fear, its quakes, its rumbling and the movement that releases great waves. Though, upon this woman’s face, there are only the ripples.
Wrinkles. This is what is comparable to the sea, among its movements. Her radiance comes from the sun of his eyes. He ignites her.
Is it ever love to be cold?
Tears fill this man’s eyes, upon when he travels his gaze over her features. Her countenance, full with the emotion of the possible. The possibility of death, is this. As nothing more than a possibility, death comes around to stroke life into its wings, blackened by the night, itself.
Love rides winds. It takes us into folds. This man’s eyes looks to the wrinkles in this woman’s face, knowing her resplendence to be from the pair of orbs embedded in his skull. They travel. His eyes look over her beauty as though it shall never decay. Where shall it not? Within his heart, it will not.
For his heart holds more an ocean than the face of this woman.
An appearance is nothing, yet it is everything to a single man. Everything beautiful to a man, is something eternal for its sake, should he never release it. The disposed beauty, is the beauty by the man never seen. Whatever a man sees, whatever a man stays with will remain beautiful, only belonging to his view.
For upon that sea of her skin, of those cascading wrinkles, running in long and travelling rapids over her face, this man must take a journey. He does, by his wandering gaze over her mouth, to her cheeks, to her ears. All things he has once touched, shall now be swum through, for another time in discovery.
Waves. As ripples, they are long in their design. Like floral along the white tide of this woman’s face. We give the understanding that the sky above is overcast to offer that white a hint of darkness, to create gray.
White darkness. Of beauty in her tone, greater in above, lesser in beneath, and wonderful to look upon the blankness of a newest remembrance. Love holds a treasure for him, of beauty needing rediscovery. Amiable. Reliable. Pleasant.
It will become a destroyer to him, when it recedes, finally. When tears climb up to his eyes, upon the time when her breath no longer moves the waters. Tears will make new water, when no longer do the breezes come in gusts from her mouth, to move these calm ripples. When the tears dance along his cheeks, and descend as rivers that have given up searching for a new body of water, she has gone. Yet, the ocean becomes a distant memory, as he will no longer set sail upon it. Just a recollection from a shoreline.
Love leaves tomorrow behind ourselves, in the motion of itself, ahead. We pace towards love, leaving tracks, leaving our mark in the earth. It is for new buds to sprout once seeds find the crevices from our feet.
What heart mistakes what we feel? None. For that would mean the human who claims this, has merely deceived themselves.
Upon her skin, he moves upon a boat of his own imagination. He rows with oars made of his arms, towards a scenery of no sunlight. Just the gray of skin, gray of eyes, gray of hair, gray of clothes, gray of shoes to bring him recognition and clarity. No blue, and just the gold of his heart in combination with her own.
Waves are moving as ripples. They are brought forth from sighs from behind, repeated in motions of her delicate and parted lips. Sweet in gusts, for he would know both their taste, the scent of her breath, upon every kiss. Gusts so seemingly limitless, that he’d not ever foresee their approaching end. He cannot remain stranded. He must reach a shore.
Beautiful matrimony. Washed by the dreams of a sunlight only apparent in the bosom of a pair. Like a lantern, he has taken his glowing heart on the remembrance of her, in the ripples of her porcelain flesh.
No stone will be dropped. No anchor to be tossed, in this time when he moves on a rowboat big enough only for himself. He is upon the ocean of remembrance, revealing in all the memories, transparent to him by the warmth beneath him.
His arms blossom sprouts with petals that are loosened to these ripples. For such will be the case, upon the day of her death. Planted to her grave, an arrangement of youthful buds and olden blooming, of red adorning itself with orange. Then, of green of stem revealing itself with the occasional thorn.
The blue, velvet skies that could be anywhere else, would reveal a different form of bliss, not to be imagined, at all. Just the gray upon the water that smells of salt, running from the skies where nothing can be imagined except for the identification of this pair.
A recession pulls him back to see her closed eyes, once more.
A faint flicker? Was it merely a distraction?
If he could open them, he’s comprehend his own world as driven into flames. As though a desire could not return, or as though such a form of his beloved could not ever receive a burn. To his own opened eyes, buried in the sadness of the moment
As it is, the only thing he’d remembered was her youth, as an ocean so very vast, it could not age. A storm? There was never a one. A gust or two, to cause ripples? There has been the amount of those lines, those marks, those wrinkles. There has been her, before him, counted of each of them, though forfeited, for it did not matter.
Who does count the stars, in the night, in the woods? Who, besides those who somehow cannot comprehend that such a sight, is merely to be looked upon? As if the comparison could be made to the citizens of a city, and it is the same. The same limitlessness of numbers, of creation, as the void of loss cannot swallow all the light.
For one more dive, would mean the world, beaming on his shoulders. To see her eyes, to bleed into her stare the one of his own, will reveal the gold so resplendent. As though such a hue were always hidden, it could now radiate enough upon her, to make her an angel.
Love never loses its magic. There cannot be a causation without also a creation. We love, because we have light, because we hold onto what will both burn and warm us.
One more dive into the washing smears of her eyes, as sadness has engraved itself around her gaze, from years spent in pain. Himself, beside her, and his heart, always glowing, can blacken for a moment. A light can be switched off with a simple maneuver, while a candle can be put out with a breath of air.
Her eyelids. All the beauty from each fulfilling stare, resides in those eyes. Though, they are shielded behind a pair of folds. Darkness makes them concealed, in unseen shadows. What she sees, is perhaps the face of death? Is it beautiful to her?
A comfort so individualized, as death, as its essence comprehends all torture to a human, waiting for a burial. It can be comprehend, with enough ease, that death is the most patient of all things.
It’s the comfort that can know the torment, at the deepest level of an individual. For if torment weighed enough as an ocean, death would make it a feather. Death cleans up the woes of the form, and turns such to dust. Whereas, a human wills themselves to clean away dust from structure, a form, a body. Why else of this latter action, other than to not be reminded of death?
A life, always beginning. Beauty, always fading, except to the man here whose wife is, to him, eternally youthful. A triumphant aspect of her to his eyes, that no dust can be of her, by such completion.
An ocean cannot become dust. Water. The land. Only something that can be held, without slipping through, can be dust. To this man, the ocean is only there to sail upon. Then, it is to his realization that like the ocean, like attempting to hold it, makes it an impossibility.
Here, he releases her hand.
He takes himself on his feet, to look through the shield before her eyes. His mouth trembles. His stare shifts from one eyelids of hers to the other. Such nervousness is apparent, bleeding through the air, with great mass.
He runs a hand to her barely-warm skin of a cheek. He talks aloud, “I am here, and I will always be. I will not be another shadow in the corner, though the memory above your mind. We lived our lives in the dark, while find our hearts alive in the light. We held ourselves in shadows, finding warmth only in who we both were.”
Soon, when finished his speech, he motions a hand to pull back both lids. A clear reminiscent to what he’s always seen, draws his tears from the pupils like cards from a sleeve.
What can be said of this? The simplest moment to recognize life before its death, like a curtain draped over a body clogged of movement, is enough to stagnant him, too. He is frozen, to the scenery of her eyes. For this sight is nothing like an ocean. There are no tears.
There is a forest.
There is evergreen verdure.
Then, there is a released sigh from her lips, like one ocean’s breeze, brought forth like the birth of one blue sea. A calmness resides now over her. For what have we said of love, as a storm? It calms, when the thunder no longer bellows. Drawing upon her ice-cold form, is now to realize the presence of a grave. It is grief that a human feels. It is comfort that the dead know. Opposite contrasts, and this man can weep a new ocean for the world to swim, with hands stretched for the freedom that love embraces us, engulfs us.
We are reminiscent with all, being solid. We are the stones upon the shore, in life. In love, we are the ocean that only moves because it has nowhere to go, besides to find stability on those rocks.
We don’t always recede when there’s always another wave to find us.
“Without birth, there is no life. Without death, there is only stasis.”– Runil (The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim)
“As humans manifest their power in terms of numbers, it is love that remains the oneness.
In a scenario where a human believes they can bury their memories beneath the grave, hurl the past behind, it is simple denial.
A human denies the ‘existence’ of God, in the same way that they deny their own grief, knowing the memory unable to die. It is love that cannot die. For what thing ‘exists’ that had already died, though still lives on in the heart? If God is described to be eternal, then it is love, the same way.
Love remains inextinguishable, due to that it cannot suffocated by the numerous grain of soil, or sand, when buried beneath it all. We cannot hurl the past behind, nor can we drown it. We cannot simply forget what hurts, that was once loved.”– Modern Romanticism
“No love has ever crossed the borders of time. It is love, however, to pledge life forever stood against its pain. For no two, truly in love, could ever part without then living half a life.”– Modern Romanticism
Love is that emotion that from the one to the other, will see their life as eternal, never-changing in the eyes that will not show contempt.
We love, truly love, when we have discovered what was missing. To any cuisine, if the main ingredient was missing, it’d not be itself. To life, without love, it could not be itself, without that main ingredient. We are unable to survive, without comprehension of another’s world. We are unable to understand ourselves, without communication to another.
To say that marriage is merely the contract, is to forget that divorce is about the paperwork, the tedium, the sadness, not the freedom. For in love, a human should never take it in lightness. A human, in love, should comprehend the emotion as the freest one.
If we look at love as confinement, as imprisonment, then we may as well look at all human historical discoveries as no truth to ever set us free.
Death should be the only thing to restrict love. For we cannot bring back what is gone, forever. However, our loved ones meeting death, are only ever gone in the physical sense. For what makes love eternal, is how it lives on in the heart. In the most literal sense, this is the subconscious. We do not understand love, like we do not know God, like how we dream of things in sleep we cannot fathom in the waking world. For we are afloat, as though in Heaven upon a cloud, when we are dreaming. All dreams are shared, in love. Therefore, the subconscious to which memories are placed, makes all love not ever truly understood until we have lost it. As it is the same to all things clung upon, that we do not understand the value of it, until it is lost.
Divorce is the material gain. For to give up, naturally places the human on the line of gaining material substance. What of love is material, besides all we now are trusted with? If one love says to another, “Trust me with this,” it is only to state that the other should not think low of them. What of love, in contrast to divorce, is the material gain? If what we name to be freedom, is always material, then we cannot at all say that we are set free by truth.