Life
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To him, all that has manifested in this aftermath might be said to be all he expected. All that destruction of a form, all because he took a different direction. Had he lied to himself at that second? All he wanted was relief. A different place to put his sanity. To whatever was left of
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Grief clings. Or is there something that we are clinging to, to keep grief alive? Perhaps it is something else other than even that. It might not be that we keep grief alive, while denial is what we first express upon hearing that we who loved has died. It might be that we keep hope
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If we are honest to another whom we have come to know, we will speak what’s needed to be said. Needed, not wanted, because lies might have been all they have heard. Lies are always aligned with repetition because they will not ever present quality to a life. A life receives quality through its growth
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“We might tell ourselves that to do what must be done, for another, is a testament to our love for them. In that, we are compensating. For what? For potential loss, of ourselves, of our identity. We hurl ourselves into another to encompass them as we often embrace them, buried under entwined thoughts. In all
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I declare, upon a point I found hindering to decide, that there cannot be a reason to love. No distinguishable, practical reason. There cannot be a useful reason for it in its wide arrangement of symptoms, all discussed of love, as all remain being reminders of what cannot be explained. What would be said? Only
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“Humans grow like muscles. But during the crisis, we are revealing how much we can lift on our shoulders, can handle in the heat of tension.” Modern Romanticism There has been that saying, “Crisis doesn’t build character. It reveals it.” It is true, I believe, that in our handling of crisis, of conflict, of pain,
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Extinguished stars. I am callingfor other gateways. I am remindingmyself, that when I fall,I am merely departing from wheremy life had always stalled.When fears are lit, to becomeblack ashes, I am walkingto find Heaven, leaving a burned trailof vacancy and stardust. I enter another path, holding handswith wide-open curtains.In letting loose the purposeof running fields
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“Between the black or the white, there is nothing but everything brought forward from a certain past into an uncertain future.” Modern Romanticism What a machine knows is to compute A or B from a scenario, or from a file where something can be accessed in its objective light. What it cannot do is comprehend
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“If ‘anyone’ might tell you the truth, offer you blatant evidence of whatever making, design, or origin, you are admitting that just ‘anyone’ can be trusted. Truth should be offered from those whom you trust are not there to taint its presence with deceit.” – Modern Romanticism “Anything goes” will not be at all relevant
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I once wrote a smile down.I once carved a line in the sandupon a shore, after I had realizedthat time is an infinite sprawl,leaving wounds as open as oceans – as that smile came to be knownas that divide between sadness,softness, and some other choice. That smile was from recognizingthat life repeats what it ignores,that
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A grave. Open and wide, like a mother’s arms. Water comes in from pouring rain, filling up that gap, as the soil absorbs nothing. He sees the scenery in me, the mirror. The mirror, another one of them, although there is only one of me in this corner of Dan’s room. Only one of me
Modern Romanticism 