“Were one be ready to move on, then the other will cling. Were both be ready to move on, then nothing ever occurred. Were neither be ready to move on, then this romance is true. Only within the third example, is a relationship ever something of truth.”– Modern Romanticism
“The one expectation one should have for a relationship, is in what makes a human. To expect the average characteristics of a human, is to expect an error, and to have acceptance for that error in consideration for yourself. To ‘hook-up’ with whatever you expect, sets the trap to what you did not expect, and creates the illusion of perfection in the supposed match.”– Modern Romanticism
Does a person state that their “match”, from whomever they “hooked up” with, must be perfect? Do we not ever compare such a person to ourselves, that they challenge our own idiocy in perhaps believing ourselves to be perfect? There are fools who believe themselves to be perfect, or perhaps just “good enough”, and they will reject every person around. This is because love shows us room for improvement. Upon our flaws, we improve through all that we did not expect to see.
Of whatever expectations we held for a certain person, pertaining to this “hook-up” culture, is always in relation to preference. A relationship is not a goal. For as a goal can be set or is foreseeable, we continuously blunder in a relationship as we must accept that as inevitable. We are meant to show our errors to what is also imperfect, not arrogantly spout ourselves as never needing the heroic aid of love. Perhaps the real reason for a failed relationship is too much in the expectation, and not so much in the sheer awe and wonderment upon what we find so new. Of what makes a match, is not for what we prefer, though of what we cannot stand of ourselves. As it has been mentioned, we enter love to improve or to repair ourselves. Perhaps the “match” lies in how both the divine aspect of love to combine with the imperfect nature of a human, must require two for the fullest realization.
To prefer is to lust, while to be kept blind is to love. As love is blind, so are most of our flaws until we enter that feeling. We realize all our faults, through the feeling of love. We should thus enter love as being the scenery for which we are blind to its detail, and never set the trap of expectation as love can never be in accordance to what we crave.
Love is not a craving. That would be same to believe it is a temporary thing. Even if a relationship is broken, it was not the love that broke, though was the trust become ruined. And, for the reason of why we hurt, is because we still love them.
Much of the “hook-up” culture relies on preference, of what to expect, and of what to desire. One previews a person’s profile on a dating website, as though they are a meal upon a menu. They look at the person’s face, as though like a preview of that meal. They look at their description as though like what the meal involves. They look at the other characteristics as though like certain included ingredients. It involves craving. It involves the most fundamental aspect of human nature, which is hunger. If love is somehow now in consideration of human fundamentalism, then how did love sink so low?
Should love not raise us? Should love not give us wings? Make us soar? Make us achieve what we thought impossible?
If love now relies on human satiation of our hunger, then it is now a miserable pot of poverty, of a simple survivalist approach, as it clings more to death over keeping a person preserved.
A: Oh, beloved. Was I always your only mistake?
B: As just the very one who abandoned me, the only regret who has come to be both truest and most false.
A: You regret so much, of so much abandonment, though I led you through your darkest trials.
B: You led me, to then bring me towards my ruin.
A: Was I too much?
B: You were enough, though it became enough for me to take no more of it.
A: The abandonment?
B: You loved, though you abandoned me when the tasks were done, when the darkness was over. When you did leave, the darkness returned. You led me towards that, though I never did the same unto you.
A: Was it because you never led me?
B: It was because I always trusted you.
A: I’ll not ever give up. I was merely a man without anymore purpose. It was not the darkness to make fade, that ever gave me purpose. It was to embrace the light, being you, that I held onto. I wanted you. I needed you. I bled the darkness away, so that I might find you, the light. What was I? Never your light. I seemed to have only erased the darkness, to become it, myself.
B: If you’ll never give up, then why did you give me up?
A: I make excuses. It is why.
B: What is your excuse?
A: To never see myself, in the reflection. I saw you, and only ever you. All was for your sake. All was never for mine. I make excuses.
B: These are your excuses?
A: These are my pains, that I suppose you won’t comprehend.
There is nothing so decimating as the heart giving up.
It is why I won’t.
You are everything. My light would diminish, if I stopped loving you. It is a light that cannot vanish.
My love! My light!
My world. You are everything.
My eyes fill with tears at the thought of smelling your hair, kissing your hand, running fingers along your thigh, dreaming of worlds that will have us. I cannot let go.
I will dive into that abyss after you.
I will love you, even after the sun stops shining.
Tears will stop. They will stop.
The world once breathed,
An amorous note.
A void now breathes,
A place where branches spiral downwards,
To one velvet opened mouth.
Lay your feet across my palms,
And swear to me, in truth,
To face the world with that same openness.
You see, I once had nothing
You are my truest accomplishment,
On my deserted little island,
Of no sun.
And now, with the greatest gleam,
From a shower,
From your sparkling eyes,
There is enough to wet these plains,
To grow verdure and life.
We are so much the clouds, without the storms,
The whispers in the dank darkness,
The lucidity of a dream gone unnoticed,
Of a man and his creation of delusion,
Of a politician and his denial of all that is.
Beauty makes us drunk.
Love has made us won.
I’ll not apologize when the curtain drops,
To cling to tears to stain my hands,
Or cling to blood to shroud my nails,
I have been defamed before you.
You are the woman of a dream,
Made to bloom, made to gleam.
I am a man of no purpose,
Until for you,
To cast a sigh in that direction,
Of your velvet opened mouth.
I bathe myself in your splendor,
And stoop myself under the light of your smile,
I savor the breath that comes off as sweet,
And drink deeply from all victims of mine.
I am, and will always be, my own enemy.
I am tremendous, in how I own myself,
But I am a pitiful beast, with no mark.
I place myself into a nothingness, I call home.
There you are, with a face, unlike mine,
Your breasts, made of silver;
Your eyes, made from emerald.
Your kindness, is where I soothe myself.
Away from the bottle, away from the chair,
Nothing to drink, nothing to throw.
Your face sweeps me from the den of my design,
Where there is nothing but pain so sublime.
I have bones showing, and death’s stare at my door,
Until I see your prettiness, awakening,
And I am filled, with the uniqueness,
Of a woman named as her, so whole in form.
I feel misery as easily as I speak,
I feel death as easily as I breathe,
But when I breathe your name,
I am showered with relief.
With fewest steps to climb,
In an amorous avalanche of emotion,
Wandering upwards, to where a face
Glistens, and has been frozen.
I, with marble, in hand,
Smear its molten material upon thee,
And make thee a face of beauty and frailty,
Because, I have come from the realm of love.
Eyes gilded as sapphires,
And lips swiped upon, with ruby
Paint; and listless, is thy worn face,
Because, thou art continually raped.
A face of so much shame, for what was lost,
A virgin to the sword, and a blameless sleep.
A state of grief to the most pitied sheep,
I am for thee, and must build ye, on high.
Death makes unique phosphorous,
Of deadened things, so that thy breasts
Will glisten, and make a sight to behold.
When I love, I love with a stricken self,
I love with all the sadness of the earth,
Because, it has all been placed in the greenest
Marble, and has been frozen by me.
Love at my feet, and sympathy in my arms.
I toss all thy kind messages to the skies,
Safety and gratuity, all hurled into the sharp winds.
Love is a blessing when found through comfort,
I know, for I have made the finest delicacy.
The woman of marble, made in tidiness,
Made with grace, with arms extended, and legs
Placed together, in firmness, and modesty.
When I love, I make, and in the making, I undo myself.
Bide thy time,
For the most worrisome.
For I am here to console
Over thy descending tears,
And over thy frozen heart.
Do you believe such a burden belongs
Mainly with you?
Allow me to take it,
And to hold it.
I wish to see it,
And to study it.
I am here,
To bide thy time,
For the most worrisome
You hold a face that darkens itself
Beneath a pallid moon.
Do not, and I repeat,
Do not speak such words,
That erode thy exterior into nameless,
For I had abandoned my pride
For the sake of loyalty.
I have made you mine.
Before an altar dressed in wisps and shades,
I discovered a tear,
That faltered to give way
And make its way
To your pale chin.
You spoke a few idle words, “Let me go.”
No more tears,
And no more sorrow.
Your idleness screams
Out to shores, upon the highest peninsula.
Leave those tears to me,
The pain to me.
I speak words that you may comprehend,
“I held enjoyment as long as I could,
And I will hold it some more.
For I am here to bide thy time
For the most worrisome
Travails, and hold thy life in my palm.”
Should the world end, with us not unified,
We’ll have the ocean to cross, and then we’ll die.
You have beauty that marvels the angels.
Of cheeks that blossom the rosiest pink,
And such beauty creates strength
In my darkened heart.
I will love with a powerful love,
End all demons that torment you into woe,
You have arms that claw at the most bitter parts
Of this angered mind.
I am enraged at those who create obstacles,
Between the love, that is for us.
When will I have to suffer no longer,
To merely see your smiling eyes, that speak more
Than either your hands or mouth?
A beauty with trembling limbs and idle words,
That speak frailty.
That speak of loneliness.
I shall have thee without the torment that lingers
Upon thy buried heart.
Between ribs made of Adam’s dust and Lilith’s tears.
Torn with woe and the endlessness
Of the subservient pain.
Let the world tremble, and not thy bared arms!
To see our love with blindness,
And how radiant thee will roam upon the rock.
I will cover thou with a bliss,
And make thee a coat formed with a stagnant love,
Deserving its stagnancy through a vision,
Of a grave that cannot be of only one.
The trembling that thou exposes,
In flesh that remains not calm,
An empire of rubble lays at your feet,
A certain sickness dwells in your heart.
You have found beauty in places of loathing,
You have wept before mirrors that showed oceans,
You have laid brick where the rich dwell,
You have made flame upon lands not scorched.
And eyes once beautiful have become somber,
Eyes once heartened have become disheartened,
A face once glad has turned towards sorrow,
A face lifted into skies has been crushed into death.
Eyes that weep tears that are infinite,
Tears that dance across paired pallid cheeks,
How I yearn to taste the wetness
Of that frail face.
How much music
Has been made into silence?
How much pain
Could turn into closure?
How much relief is there,
Upon a world that does not care?
How sorrow is embedded,
In thy barren and tortured head.
The feelings I dip into your form,
Like a ladle that searches for warmth,
Finds only the continued pollution,
That seems to make the continued heat.
A continued burning, a continued fear,
And so I shall remain to keep you near.
Q: As you term it, the “individual perspective” has become the beginning of the selfishness to a world with only a focus on the self, and a human’s inevitable yearning for companionship?
A: The “focus on the self” stems always from a view around oneself that is full of the rottenness of humanity. One believes in the value of negativity, though possesses the guilt harbored deeply enough to blame the self. They hold value in negativity due to them believing it as “righteous” to find all humanity equal to dirt.
Q: And as you term it, such people, whose focus is solely on themselves, have only done this, because a human’s flesh, or truth, is like clay; easily molded so that it is suited to be a desired shape?
A: The human flesh is like a canvas. And in comparison to the mind, the mind is also like a canvas. Truth is blank, like the clay that has not been touched, or like the canvas without color, and what grows from this is eventually the form or the color that is the influence. Influence molds truth and makes it whole. People find fulfillment in their reputation and status, and this comes from influence. Influence and truth are not the same, because truth, as has been said, is blank without it becoming a shape. It is formless, and as a Nihilist enjoys saying, is a nothingness. Nihilism is merely the reset of humanity. A nothingness does not remain a nothingness for long. It is the very reason for why peace is short-lived, in comparison to the “long winter” or the “long, and brutal war”. Pain is continually wondered upon with the words in mind, “When will it end?”
Q: You have said that the “individual perspective” has become the selfishness of an era, due to how when society is in disorder, then one has no choice but to repair themselves? And when someone focuses on themselves, they rarely ever focus on what surrounds them?
A: Though a human is inevitably affected by the environment, or inevitably interacts with their environment, this is not to say that they care for those who create problems. Humans will see themselves as humans, and will see other humans as humans; and as a human is only a human, humans will see their mirror image in another human. A world that longs for companionship, is the world of pain. Should we have to long for companionship, it is only because we have experienced it before, or grown curious over having witnessed it, that we say we should belong to it. The “individual perspective” is the belief that there is no universal traits among humanity. Such people with a mindset as this, will be wonted to say that each human has their own “perspective” on what companionship should be, and this only entices the feeling of “personal empowerment”.
Q: And you have said that when a human eventually falls in love, and faces disaster in the romance, the blame turns upon themselves, despite the fact that they have pointed their finger in blame of the other?
A: To speak of the “mirror image” again, one will one day see the grief in their eyes, the sadness in their eyes, and come to know the meaning of responsibility. For in a world that focuses solely on the self, it is a world that will come to loathe the self. It is a world that when disaster surrounds them, it is because they have seen another’s mistake as their own mistake; that such mistakes are human mistakes; and in such companionship that a human longs for, it is through love that a broken heart can be healed. The love for the self, however, does not heal a broken heart. It embitters it, and instead of healing the wound, there is only the stain of anger.
Your rarity, on thine loving lips,
Lay kisses, upon where I sit,
Go crawl in misery, on death ships,
Bask in embers, of fires lit.
I would watch, those hands, cover tears,
To imitate, a sleeping body,
You could face, the dawn as night,
Sink under trauma, of the years,
But searing embers, raise the study,
Of lifeless voids, piercing blight.
For the embers, awoke my sense,
Tears slide, off a pale cheek,
The want of joy, is my defense,
Those eyes, of sadness speak.
I have written volumes, in your name,
Scorn is drowning, your tongue,
Misery’s grief, are those words,
In each tress is mournful shame,
Robes of priests, you are clung,
Wrath for children, grief affords.