Philosophy – “The Philosophy of Feeling Goosebumps” – 3/7/2021

“Something so beautiful, identifiable, and familiar to us is enough to raise even portions of our physical flesh to the heights of Heaven.”

– Modern Romanticism

How real is it to feel something so lodged in the mind? Of something so dark, that only ever the depressed individual could understand, is never felt during a moment of being uplifted.

Though, to be raised, in being given hope, is always among the beautiful. Everything beautiful, comprehended among the sculpted flesh, becomes not the identification to us as the insecure, unaccepted individual. Though, we each become equally beautiful, when we are raised to the acceptance that love brings.

As we hear, as we see, of those beautiful things that exist to awaken us, can cause an ever-greater sensation upon our skin that goes beyond the mere individually identifiable. Of what is individually identifiable, is understood of depression or insecurity. Yet, in what is equally identifiable among everything so beautiful, is through the understood identification of ourselves to another. Of life to itself, of one person to another, is the soon felt sensation known as “goosebumps”.

Towards what is beautiful, not merely to us, though in the universal connection between people who communicate through emotion, is enough to entertain the fragile with the acceptance that resides in the perfection of love. Our imperfection, due unto the depressive and lonely thoughts that correspond with sheer insecurity and doubt, can become alleviated in the belief of love. With love, imperfection becomes perfected.

As to the feeling of “goosebumps”, itself, it is the representation of hope. We are uplifted in a stronger sense, as such a raising of individual spots upon our skin shows that what is “identifiable” in this world does not need to be individualized and alone. We each can sit in the concert hall, listening to the majestic notes, to feel the same emotions, even if perceiving something of difference. Goosebumps are indeed the actual raising of the physical self, to the euphoric sensation of shared emotional understanding.

The physical self, so unmemorable to the depressed individual that it is the cause of their sadness. Not their mind, through depression is the representation of lacking love. Lacking embrace, that only arms can show to wrap around the woeful individual. As it is, we observe those goosebumps upon our arms, of mainly the forearms, where half the freedom is needed to hug a person, while the sleeves cut off at the elbows.

Raised flesh, is equivalent to a raised imperfection to the heights of limitless love. Within the stage of Heaven, if even for a brief glimpse unto it, is enough in the reminder for how paradise can be welcomed into another, by literal open arms.

Philosophy – “Why Anger is Never the Cure” – 12/26/2020

“Anger, the cure to life, by the death of it. For we aim to put out the flame with a greater one, and never so bravely open our vulnerable selves to the washing rain of teardrops.”

– Modern Romanticism

Anger. Is such an emotion able to be controlled? It cannot, any more than fire can be controlled for where it spreads. Fire, the weapon. Though, a weapon that controls the wielder of it. We are not responsible with anger. We cannot be. Anger is never responsible for us, for that is the same as believing a tyrant deeply cares for consequences. To anger, anything goes, most literally so, especially from its poisoning to the life that carries it.

Toxicity. That is anger. Or, it is the result of anger. For flame’s sake, we relate a fire to the swell of rage. Therefore, we compare toxicity to the smoke that results from a blaze. We cannot love, with anger, for we always hurt, with it. We make others vulnerable, because we never do such unto ourselves. We break others, or other things, and never ourselves. Were such a destruction to be upon ourselves, we would weep. And, through such a session of weeping, we’d inevitably become able to connect with another. For so long as they are not the oil meant to burn or be heated, and cannot combine with ourselves, the water, they will always fuse.

It is anger that conceals the hurt. It is such an emotion that hides the pain. We do not even yearn to show it, when anger is something that deludes us into a false sense of strength. Of strength, we do not feel it, when we simply burn, inside. We are simply destroying all others who, if unified with ourselves, would create the connection we so yearn. And, if we cried, we would find ourselves not so alone, not so angered at the world, though in comprehension that it was ourselves who held the wrong.

And, to look upon it in a more objective manner, when it comes to Nature, water is the element superior to fire. Therefore, to weep is the objectively correct choice that should not even be a choice. It should be what we were meaning to do, though did not know how.

Philosophy – “The Artist and the Politician” – 10/28/2020

“Why should art be a thing of chaos, when it is a thing of order? Is it not a creation, revealing order, opposite from a causation that reveals chaos and disorder? This would mean that all art, of emotions, so disorderly, can only become order when they are confined to their place.”

– Modern Romanticism

There is an imprisonment, so certain for the artist to whatever they create, that it should not be free. From the writer to their page, or the painter who traps their canvas in the frame, nothing of emotions are there to express political ideals. Only logic, and nothing more, should be for the political endeavor. For the artistic endeavor, to free the limited movement of a painting, as emotions to express a political opinion, will cause chaos. To free the sculpture of pure emotion, from being bound to a base, will only cause the chaos that such artistic desires have formed. Formed, for the artistic creation was indeed a creation. It was not an intention for causation, as is the surge of chaos.

The surge of chaos, so much neutered when it is brought to art. For art can only ever be order, when it is bound to its singular imprisonment. When it is never moved, when it is never free, it is art. Art is not free, even when graffiti is limited to a wall, to a surface.

We are artists, when we can create from the chaos that is in our minds. We are those who cause chaos, when we can shout political opinions to the world, in the belief that such emotions, in such verbal language, are free. This is the onset of chaos, objectively so, when we don’t realize that logic is the only endeavor to the political ideal. It is not emotions. For if it were, then no artist upon this world would ever bind neither the sculpture to its base, nor the writing to the page.

Emotions cannot be free for the political opinion or ideal. They can only be expressed, and turned towards the artistic endeavor. This would make the art even confined to the space where it has been branded or placed. It might be the painting trapped in a canvas, as the canvas is trapped in a frame. It might be the musician or theater performer bound to their stage. It is always in the place of the artistic creation, whether from painting, or song, or film, makes the art never free. Once more, if it were free, it would merely result in the chaos that pure emotions, in the art, would cause.

Whoever first said the words, “Art is free”, never understood that art has a place in this world, where the artist is confined. They never understood that the chaos of emotions becomes order, when it is driven into the artistic creation. They never understood that outside of art, pure emotions causes the chaos that is never on the side of creation. They never understood that creation and causation are two opposites, where the former represents order as the latter represents chaos.

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

Poem – “Nothing Falters Quite Like You” – Romance – 3/1/2020

In the snow
Or in the haze of a winter’s evening
Just when wind is coming over your dress,
You’ll ask to receive less
Than what I have ever offered.
For in the coldness,
You are quite like oldness.

Quite like without grace
Of an ill cat on the roadway
To some morsel or scrap,
To sate an appetite, so lifeless, yet so stirring.
Quite like what doesn’t want to move
Further into the sun,
You’ll then choose to run.

What may come
From you, when I offer something extensive?
The heart of mine,
And you’ll still cling to the meagerness
Of a thousand bits of littleness
Like that stray cat,
Going nowhere.

You are on a road,
A road, that is cold and lonesome.
And, right when I see the wind pick up your dress,
I see infernos raised to your breast.
I see the many and one things, you say you desire,
Not the oneness and one thing I wish to give.
Go on, then, to reach like cat and paws, to the ends of everything else.

Poem – “A Kiss upon the Divine Shoulder” – Romance – 10/26/2019

Dawn on me,
Your shade of comfort,
In my place of great sorrow.
Hellish disdain,
Among great pain,
Has left me open,
To the option, of having you near.
And you are what is called,

A great love, has left its mark,
Upon a heart, fleeing in dark.
A notion I’ve made clear,
Under stars so bright and cruel,
That I’ve seen plains full of flame,
And cities full of shame.
I’ve seen what I cannot clear,
From my mind nested in weathered tear,
Brought down upon frigid knees.

My love is a great castle,
Of knights and bishops combined.
Upon when I kiss
Your divine and splendid shoulder,
That beams from heat I know not where,
I see two faces and two eyes,
Merrily meeting without any disguise.
There is no deceit among us, in this feat
Nothing wrong among us in our great heat.

A wilderness around us,
Mournful trees about us,
Two moons,
One brighter than the other,
Two faces,
Of yours and mine.
I see from your divine shoulder,
A mark that I’ve left.
Is it a love you’ll say to be a surety?