Short Story – “The Empty Prodigy” – Chapter I – 8/19/2021

Colors will drain from the open wound. Upon the carpet, upon the spaces where sunlight brought in from open windows is shown warmest, as these marks are left without memory for why or when they were applied. They just were, because colors can be left behind.

Color-blinded, some people are, though not ever blinded of the self. An ideal is a comparison to the self, of what one can make themselves to be. At first, a blank canvas. Then, perhaps something monstrous. Or, perhaps another thing resplendent. However, it is always innocent. Always to appear of ongoing progress, though that first step is still seen that could not be completely crossed. It is the white space of the underlying blank canvas. Always the innocence, always the purity. Nothing should, or nothing could shroud it, to cover every trace of sand or soil with the waters of an artist’s emotion.

Continue reading “Short Story – “The Empty Prodigy” – Chapter I – 8/19/2021″

Short Prose – 200 Words – “The Intent for Integrity” – Romance – 10/29/2020

Why ever do rightness unto another, when distrust is gathered upon you, blanketed by those I once did love? It is you I love, yet it is they I am forced to resent. It is you I am forced to say is the most important essence. That, to go back to a former time, would mean my death. It is you who cannot let me go, when hands are wet from the cold waters of a winter ocean. With ease, hands can indeed slip free the burden of all guilt.

Why weigh us down, under love? It has always been you who I have loved. It has always been you, I can hardly fathom. It has always been you, to the day that I die, that you might die with me. It has always been you that when you disappear, will be when I cast my final breath.

My love, from trumpet call to scraping the strings of violins, I can feel the stir of something warm. Yet, for their sake, I bury it. For their sake, of the ones I once did love, I bury my love for you. And, only when I hold you, can I know what I will raise. And, only when I weep upon your name, can I know what has been built.

Quote – “Why Character Matters Extremely Little for Politics” – 9/7/2020

“The only reason a scandal would target the fiercest at the politician, is because it strikes the heart. Character becomes the only thing berated, of the politician, when the scandal is caused. The heart is the symbol to the emotions. The mind is the symbol to logic. The body is the symbol to vulnerability of physical wounds.

All triviality to character, of a politician, becomes commonplace, when it is only noted upon those weak points being struck, related to their heart, or emotions. It is the cruelest tactic, since it takes the politician out of the political context, and for a moment, makes them human.”

– Modern Romanticism

Quote – “Why One Inevitably Feels Guilt for Pleasure” – 8/10/2020

“To act on impulse, without thought, with no clarity, is comparable to the psychopath who kills without knowing who he is killing.

Any person whose vulnerability defines what they share in the world, defines also what they are guilty for sharing. Meaning, that a person who shares their secrets with those who they do not know, will feel guilt, for that.

One is not meant to not ever trust. Instead, one is meant to not give themselves away, so easily.

It is, in such a sense, that a person will feel pleasure for giving themselves away. However, they will feel guilt, afterwards.”

– Modern Romanticism

Quote – “Politics and Art… or, Logic and Feelings” – 7/31/2020

“In the attempt to blend politics with art, it never is that feelings dominate logic. Whereas, it will be that feelings, being of chaos, remain as is, until logic cleans up the mess. Where a riot will leave a disaster, logic will clean up the wreckage. Where does the cleaner take the rubble? Does he smear it around, or does he head it straight to the dumpster? It is the latter, always. Logic dominates feelings, making the blend of politics and art the overtaking of art from politics, and it is always in that method.

Feelings, in terms of politics, epitomizes chaos. It is because one completely disregards logic, if their intent is to cause chaos. Chaos is never a goal, as it is a method. It is never an end, as it is a means. As chaos is caused, it becomes a distraction for someone’s benefit.

Therefore, it should be that politics and art should remain separate.”

– Modern Romanticism

Random Post – “Caffeine does not Work for Me” – 7/14/2020

I am sensitive. Real sensitive. So… I have found out that caffeine heightens this sensitivity. Though, not in a good way. One cup of coffee causes my whole body to be in pain. I feel this agony in my chest, my abdomen, my lower back, and even my calves. Even my scoliosis begins to hurt, despite sitting upright and in relatively good posture.

My mind is continually running like a machine… on my good days, that is. When I’m not dealing with waves of depression, I am writing. If I drink coffee, or even tea, I cannot even feel my music that I usually do feel for its emotions, while I write. Writing becomes more of an effort, with caffeine in my system.

I am quitting this drug. For good.

Quote – “The need for Unity” – 7/5/2020

“There is, to each person, their preference, their race, their creed, their religion, and everything else. Anything past this is to the realization that despite having a different story, we bleed the same tears. When someone dies among ourselves, precious to us, we feel the same pain. We all feel the same torments, the same woes, the same feeling of loss.

Pain connects us. It is understanding. Though, it is not the betterment of understanding. For nothing will heal that pain, until love has a path to it.”

– Anonymous

Romance Novel – Chapter Excerpt – Chapter VI – “To not Sink a Friend” – 6/19/2020

He speaks directly to her ear, “You are still so small, my child.”

She withdraws to peer upwards to his gaze, with quivering lips and weary stare, to then commit a moment in a burning. She kisses him. Upon the lips, smooth with each waxen mouth that fires up a fever to the downing daytime. It leaves her mark upon his own, with red upon his porcelain.

Her passion wields fire, has carried a torch through to him, ignited the smallest areas without a flame. Love bounces through to him, playing chords on whatever harp can be envisioned for his heartstrings.

“I am not the enemy of yours,” says Lisa, gravitating her tone through a certain sweetness. “I love you, with all of my yearning heart,” she adds, without notice so much to Joel, both through her tears and the shades of the night. She says, next, “Why do you block so much of me?” in an ever sweeter tone, laughing next to the words, to then add, “I was aiming to go around you, until I saw you. Then, I stopped, and placed myself in an awe I could not escape from.”

“You are still so beautiful, Lisa,” says Joel, wandering between his own words, like the confusion in them, meagerly transparent. “My apartment is near. Will we enter?”

Her cheeks flush with the red crimson of one new morning sun, at the sound of those words. To wrap her in arms as wide as wings, from the eagle as Joel, determined of eyes to have a glimpse of possession. He can count droplets of sweat upon her brows. A scent raises itself to him, enticing him by the need to devour.

What love is, by the torch of trust, raised high as the flag with spread-about coloring. What wields Spain, by Spanish passion? Fire is simple, and to the two that are presented here, their lives have been transfigured for this endearing moment. For this moment, among all moments that will climb over to the next, a future can wait. They trust, for the moment, because the many more in the future, are patient when the moments wish to then move onward. Trust is the flame for the present, revealing the future by the light such a torch can emit.

Her breath comes through from ruby lips that have been smeared, in the rouge once-applied. Her eyes have glanced over to the side of them, while remaining in his grasp, her form leaning into him.

Love has a flavor. Blissful, while radiant, in all emotions and complexions, exposed for a future’s sake. To Joel, a future is as uncertain as his own love, his own heart, his own purpose. He has expressed this, as we know from him, as his words resonated with the stubborn, thumping heart inside his chest. Beyond the flesh, beyond the walls of him, a fear resides, blanketing the needed fervency for heartfelt devotion.

Quote – “Why Men do not Weep” – 6/17/2020

“Men are never told by some unseen force, to never weep. It is in their personal motto, to never weep. For if they have heard the words, ‘Do not cry’ from another man, it has been easily recognized as right to listen to. Though, that is only because the man in turmoil has said such words to himself, at least a thousand times. Men are not conditioned by a society to never weep, as much as they always condition themselves to never weep. When a man can weep, he is fracturing his own armor, impaling himself on his own sword, for he fronted himself with the armor, showed his weapon to many enemies, simply to protect himself from fear. A man’s enemy is always himself.

To know that a man only protects himself out of an effort to be honest with himself, is in the comprehension that his greatest honesty is to know that he cannot do that. He breaks himself down, in the lie, for he knows his truth belongs with someone else. The source of his weakness, is not within himself, though is in the sight of someone else’s weakness.”

– Anonymous

Quote – “Not One Person is Special…” – 6/14/2020

“Not one person is special to the reflection of themselves. For the only time a person is deemed as such, is through another person’s gaze. We are all vulnerable, until we are lifted by another person’s arms, shown that we are special through their eyes. Were there to be the last person to live in a world, there’d only be darkness and loneliness, not love. For love cannot come upon the self. It comes through discovery and exploration. We land upon that which we cannot part with, and say to others they are unable to touch our possession. When we love, we have forged a specialty. We have made something of someone else, through their vulnerable, bare, and raw self. For each wholeness in this world was crafted from pieces.”

– Anonymous

Excerpt – “Chapter Three – Endearment” – From “An Unfinished Book” – 5/28/2020

Her appearance had been, as it still is, a force of endearment over Anton’s visage, washing his face with her colors. Everything he was witness to, during her life, is again, written even now in every crease to his cheeks and lips. It is this way, while he strains to withhold tears. While he strains to withhold sobs, forcefully subduing emotions, it is not without a man’s plight to say to himself to never reveal his own. Why have we told ourselves society be at fault, when the man will say to himself these ongoing punishing words, without another man near to him? He will possess the utmost out of choice, and claim strength where it is wanted, not needing to rely on another man’s aim to see him ruthless to his emotions.

Though, in what leaves from him, are the stutters, indeed professing emotion to the wind that trails itself before his lips. Wind that beholds itself an intrusion to this abode, somewhat wealthy in all its decor, from an open window to the left of Anton.

A breeze, a gust or two, and then a mere gentle sigh all enter through the crevice to the window in various turns. Late in the day, and close to the apocalypse of nighttime, where shadows cast in corners are for memories of late. It is when Anton can be welled in his drear, while seeing the portrait before him, hung as it is, seemingly for the longest time.

He has placed his eyes to it, in admiration of it, while it shows its age above that mantle with bleak, dotted smudges. As though willfully unkempt to the passage of the last many years, because is a memory not always as dusty as it is only rarely to be touched? A memory just as old, as perhaps Anton’s own soul is, will be groomed over in the same dust of age and sheltering.

We say he stutters, though Anton does not speak. Only blurbs form from his lips, not worth repeating in the gibberish pronounced. Perhaps they be murmurs of something he means to say, though is simply unable to release. How can any person buried to be a fossil in their own mud of memories, know something of what to reveal out in the world, when it is sometimes that we yearn for another person to discover them? Don’t we, as those conflicted with the ideas of stale loss, come to want another person to see our mind for what it is, drowned around in the issue of being lost?

She is beautiful, this woman, revealed not for a name, when Anton still murmurs silently to himself, uttering inaudible words that mean next to nothing for clarity.

Shown for her blonde locks that trail roads of gold over the sides to her head, the temples, as though each strand were the shimmer of an ore vein in a cast of stone. That stone, being her head, rounded in the shape of being ovular, with a complexion deep in the brightness of whatever merriment caused the appearing smile. That smile, bringing deep hues to Anton’s eyes, welled in the tears he forces not to let break free from their dams.

Her cheeks, rounded and moon-like, for the pale tone to her skin is also complimented with a rosy blush, never seeming to fade, when it would upon her death. Through a strict set of even shoulders, a neck rises to meet all of her features, so kissable by the narrow lips of Anton. While those shoulders have met the multiple caresses by Anton’s hands, it is that they are bare within this portrait, that they have been captured to show a radiance. Perspiring gleams, as there is much to the lighting of this portrait, coming from somewhere to the left. As though the darkness of the now-settling night, could be replaced with the briskly-formed daylight, snowing in its downpour of highlights for her.

Life is a goddess’s temple, while love would be God’s kingdom, as the former is to mourn for the loss of the latter. In life’s loss of love, there are all too frequently the statements of where the river carries the soul. Where does one tread? Where does one go, once the heart stops moving? A river had been said, and though the veins, vessels, and arteries quit their flow, it is most certainly not the end. If what life can be said as related to existence, then it must be the thing so related to non-existence that created life. So the Atheist must be wonted to believe that existence created the existence, though in what fashion does that occur, without in the most mass producing manner? Love is abandoned in such a world.

To relate that topic to Anton’s present state of his mind, is enough like everything that Anton has thought of. Details can be revealed, can they not? Reader, to imagine Anton the trustee of his emotions, his feelings, and to be a mute, he’d suppress them so easily to not desire another to see them. The loner, the mute, and the devotee to his own emotions, makes Anton subconsciously aware of that open window. He imagines, out of paranoia, that another could be in sight of his glistening eyes, from somewhere far off.

Behold of beauty, deep in her visage, the visual torment for Anton, as such a memento to a heart would be to anyone. A life dressed in white, while now a love dresses itself in black, is all too much the darkness that laces itself around Anton with the depression he feels so strongly.

A white, a newness he cannot fathom. A black, a darkness he’s aware of, just like the open window he’s paranoid of, in thinking another may see him, even this late in the hour of night.

Quote – “As Men Weep” – 5/21/2020

“The saying remains that we are not a reflection of a social realm, though it is true instead that society is a reflection of ourselves, of our own hands, as it is in our own making. Why men weep, said to be rare, is not a teaching by society. In fact, it is a result of what men are, known to be strong, though to never express emotions as profoundly as a woman. Is there any problem in a woman expressing her emotions, as often as she does? Are we next going to say that the expression of emotions, no matter how often, is somehow a wrongdoing? Are we to say that humanity is a beast? No. It is to correctly say that a woman brings out the humanity in a man, through what she feels, through what she experiences, through what she understands.

A man will weep, though only in the open to express his brokenness. Without strength, as in, without his strength, without his woman near to him, he is broken. Love is, to a man, something that cannot be fathomed, until fathomed. To a man, love is something he’ll never realize is his utmost importance, until he finally allows himself to experience it.”

– Anonymous