“Bring plenty to a nation, and it is the realist who will be loved by all. Such a leader has merely taken advantage of what was always present, did not require change, though simply needed a people to be reminded of it. However, shatter a nation, and then the people will forget their country’s color, will cling to the soon-to-be idealistic leadership, out of personal experience to how poverty brings them only deprivation.”– Modern Romanticism
“That which becomes forgotten was meant to turn to ash. That which isn’t forgotten, is like the sun. As the sun continues to glow, and whenever it fades, we will not remember it. We only remember the sun, as it continues to warm us.”– Modern Romanticism
Should a Pagan worship the physical, then it worships the endless supply of tools. It does not worship what can be loved, without it no longer being a tool. Usable, for the tissue paper made to wipe the eye of a tear, can be “worshipped”, though only because we found it practical. Have we lost sight of what it means to worship? Upon the Abrahamic God, who represents love, we cannot find practicality in Him. However, through our desperation, we wish for it. We believe in miracles, despite science having taken the place of “the practical”. Does Paganism then worship science?
Love is not practical. This would make the Abrahamic God neither practical, nor physical, and not even something in comparison to “existence”. Whatever “exists”, in this world, can be touched, can be held, and that to a human, is a physical and external thing. Though, love is not a tool. Do we say to a person, whom we love and cherish, that they have merely been whom we use? That would be betrayal. From betrayal, comes a lack of trust from the one betrayed. If we are meant to trust God, then how does God trust us? This would be more evidence into God being unable to be at all physical, if something in which can be used can also trust us. For what trusts us, is to the care of it. If we worship what can be used, then we depict reliance as something more necessary than what is within ourselves. Does a tool connect to another? Or, does a tool merely fix what is wrong with another? And, if a tool only ever fixes another’s problem, then it will never be able to understand a person, within.
No tool understands itself as such, until it is given purpose as one. Though, where is the purpose in being loved? There is none, if love cannot be used. Love cannot be what we say we feel, when we use people. Does the Pagan comprehend that “the physical” is nothing more than the sheer reliance upon endless possibility? Can we rely on God, or can we rely on science, to make the possible occur? Pagans would worship the latter, in that sense. All others, would comprehend and be sure of themselves. For all that is known of love, is to know the self, and thus, be honest with another, without deception.
We cannot discover the endless, in possibilities, within love. However, we can discover that love is an endless Creator to possibilities. As in, we cannot be dissatisfied, in love, were we to hold it in truth. We cannot be dissatisfied of a oneness, when those possibilities, endless as they are, cannot make us satisfied. If one ever witnesses a woman wishing for truth, though instead takes the endless into her arms, then nothing is ever whole. She takes the endless, with the continuance of a broken or unfulfilled heart.
Nothing that is physical, can be worshipped as love. Do we worship another person, for the sake of their love? Or, have we been worshipping them, depending on them, because they were merely useful?
To worship a God of love, is to find Him useful. That is against love. That is, even unknowingly, believing more in a tool, over love. Though, through our physical forms, we can act, if we love. Though, we cannot solve, if all we do is combat the endless problems of others with ever-more conflicting and debating people with their differing solutions. What we should solve, is a person, by knowing them at heart. That is love.
“Of Love, of God, then to say that the latter has no existence, would be to say that the human can only live, without silencing themselves to express gratitude. In having no existence, is to have no life. Though, what being of Love, holds existence, when an expression of gratitude is always upon what is not at all a physical thing? We were given the meal. We consume the meal. To be given shelter, is to make use of it. To who we Love, however, we can never use, for they are not physical, not meant to be manipulated, not meant to be distrusted.”– Modern Romanticism
“How can a person ever be wronged to glorify the power of love? We are nothing without it. Evolution is impossible, without it. For no insect could one day become an elephant, without love. Why do we say that to love, is not realistic? Why do we say of someone in love, they are never realistic? Love is idealistic, and purely so. We are ambitious, in love. We are wishful, in love. We yearn, in love. We sometimes weep for small parts of that love, being shredded away. Love is a glory. It is highest. It cannot be measured. It cannot be fathomed. It cannot be stated as a greater, middling, or a lesser. For there is no competition, in love. We are both strong and weak, at the same time, in love. We are beautiful, fragile, and crippled, in love, because everything is on display for who we trust, the most. Everything is engulfed, in love. Everything is swallowed, in love.
Love is the earthquake that keeps shaking our heart, to the confusion of why that is. We should know it as merely love.”– Modern Romanticism
There is no such thing as a “realistic approach” to a problem. During the ongoing problem, one finds optimism, solely in the fact that being optimistic means to have the desire to cure the problem. Simply being realistic when it comes to an issue, only means to know the facts. The facts are fine. Yet, when it comes to actually ridding the problem of its existence, that means being optimistic.
Would one ridicule a leader for being optimistic? If so, then the one who ridicules was never deserving to be a leader.
Leadership is born upon the spine of optimism. One, as a leader, does not survive upon facts, and facts, alone. Again, facts are fine, though they are not what will cure the problem.
Realism is the telling of facts. It means to look ahead. Though, looking ahead is not looking towards the future. Looking ahead means to stare at the faces of others, in their own desperation. When we reject responsibility, the essence of true leadership, we are distrusting of others, of ourselves, and of potential leaders. Meaning, that to see the future, means to stare upwards at the face of a leader.
Optimism is the courage, the wisdom, the duty to cure the problem, soon as it arrives. Optimism is objectively meant to be the mindset of the leader, not realism. Realism is for the scientist, and other ordinaries. A scientist is a thinker, and lazy as one. A leader is a doer, and productive as one.
The tears that have made this well rise
From the cracks in my soul.
My love has fallen.
She has fallen
To somewhere I cannot see,
To a bleeding sea,
And now lies in a scene
Of outspread limbs
Upon a bloody shore.
Love flows a mile and a half across,
This tale of loss.
Across a sea of treachery
And the sinew and skin of one terrible beast
Who had fought endlessly
For his love to be devoured, in total safety.
His heart, a curtain of hurt.
The music he ever made, from a mouth full of tears
A symphony of grief,
Born of losses, in many Hellish yesterdays.
She is laying there, still,
With emotions sweating upon a shoreline
As a skeleton, now.
And as he aims for Heaven, to vow
With vain attempts, still for all that hasn’t been
The message for a man who craves the sight of raw life.
I lay it, quietly,
A kiss upon thy forehead,
While music shudders around us,
And destroys all tension,
As I have kissed you.
Resplendence, among beauty and grace,
All are teeming in your bosom.
You have a flower in your hair,
And a heart that shimmers, like the wings flapping from the gulls,
Radiant with the dew from the sea.
A clever mind, and ever-more warming soul,
You have gifted to me.
I will love with all the kindness,
Befitted to me.
Great beauty who is so sad,
Let your tears fall into my hand,
They are cupped for their landing,
And I will drink.
Nothing escapes me,
So much as your fleeing heart.
I have a thorn for you, not a bud, nor even a petal,
Pain is so unstoppable,
But, I believe to have brought warmth.
Where is there the terror?
Where is there the annoyance?
Gentleness and kindness, is where you thrive,
While I dance upon fields made of bone,
Fields made of pain, for us both to reap like shredded grain.
I gift thee,
One present of love.
Because, I have seen thee,
Do not, anymore, suffer longer,
Because, I love you, as a friend should.
Staying strong, as I am,
I am destined, to be where you land.
Rain comes as the fewest petals,
To break themselves upon the shores of my cheeks,
I had loved you, with all the grains upon my heart,
I felt your suffering, for what it truly was,
Though, I am alone.
I am alone, without you.
I am alone, to kiss my own tears, in this bleakness.
In this winter of my heart, where Hell reigns eternally
Upon this consciousness, upon my light.
When you had died away,
I was consumed
By my madness,
By my grief,
In this storm, of sinew and bone,
In this storm, of grief and disbelief.
I feel only the shame of knowing
That to part from you,
Means I’ll not know myself.
Grief is triumphant,
As I am alone,
Hell is over Heaven, and Heaven is beneath Hell,
What love do I still possess,
To share with this forsaken world?
As I may forever be,
Under hopes so transparent,
That they look away from me.
And, the brief falling of those fewest raindrops,
Among the flakes of snow,
Are to where I shall go,
Because the cold is all I know, without the warmth.
We are revealed, before an Earth that has concealed
Its face for too long.
Here is place we’ll both escape to, in the realm of our disgrace,
Death is a final place, that we both had to face.
We stared into Death’s face,
And spat upon it.
Now when love is still culled, like one population too overgrown,
Like thistle become twig; like rose become ashes.
And we each dance upon scattered remains, with our nostrils to the wind,
To smell our lives finding someone else’s bravery,
For we require saving.
We require saving.
We require the face of love,
That does not die.
And I am witness to your downfall,
You, as a murderer to a vision,
I once described,
To be alike a place that cannot vanish,
Because, all it does is thrive.
And yet, all you wanted was to survive.
And I have asked you,
“Beloved, do you know the difference
Between what it means to survive,
And to live?”
Perplexity surrounded your gaze,
For my words to you, were only a haze.
Like the pauper, sideways upon the roadways.
Like the pauper’s eyes, with no stare that enters backwards
To the trailing mind, like the road before him.
Like the pauper’s mind, imagined to be Hellish
In whatever dream he’s conjured to pursue,
Because the sun seems too hot, and unreachable,
As the gold he’s longed to breathe,
It is us.
A nothingness, in what we hold,
To live within it,
And to savor it.
Is the love that we behold, before ourselves,
In our mire, in our filth?
We are still standing sideways, like the pauper
Before the roadways.
With our mouth, we weep, instead of with our eyes.
We speak words of solemn attitude,
And attempt to drown them in our hands,
Upon when we shield our lips.
Death stands before us, offering a rose
To you, the mightiest of us two.
Our promise has become alike the pauper,
Without his mind, ever fixated
Upon something real,
Because he faces the sun, in the summer,
As easily as he does, for the winter.
As unreachable as the sun is,
So is our love,
Because, our hunger is still uneven as our lips.
Upon thy broken and velvet back,
There is a tiny frailness,
A little bird without wings,
It sits, while I sit, and I paint,
To see what I’ve always envisioned,
A woman with eyes like onyx stones
Within a lake of sapphire,
And a face of pure porcelain,
Dotted with freckles like leaves in another lake
Of immaculate white milk.
But, the bird atop your back,
Has no wings.
It attempts to flap mere stubs,
And cannot fly.
What freedom does it possess?
Is it your pet?
Is it your child?
The poor frailty
Of that little bird,
Causes my tears to be my paint.
I drain blue to the canvas,
And turn what is painted to be a white back,
To a blue one.
And to yourself, I reach my head,
When I lean forward after I’ve raised
Myself, from this horrid chair.
And I lay a kiss,
Upon not you,
But that bird.
Your face appears startled, a vision of fear,
A vision of confusion,
Love is in my eyes,
Not for the one I’ve painted,
But the one I’ve pained for,
My love, my beauty with eyes of green,
Who do I love? Who have I seen?
We have been lovers a long while,
But, that bird! That bird!
Within one life of prior viewing,
I once could see beauty
Before myself, with all its liveliness.
I once saw a woman with darkest hair and darkest eyes,
I once saw herself adorned in garments of black,
I once saw her in pallid skin, readied for kisses.
And I see myself now, painted in a mask,
Of defeat and grief.
How has it comes to this?
Among all denial I’ve given to all else,
I’ve given all of denial to this.
Neither of us were to blame,
For what you’ve become.
I have nothing but the rose,
Empty of petals,
Nothing but the white stem.
Nothing but the grief
Has it in for me,
Nothing but the music of shame,
Has a love for me.
Nothing but the birds and broken wings,
Where they used to fly freely.