“Do we ever forget who we love? Or, do we ever forget who loves us? Are we to reduce ourselves to the selfish fool, who cannot appreciate the selfless gesture of kindness? It is in our pain, that trust has died, not ever love. Love does not become torn apart, for that is not what pains us. Whether distrust, or impossibility for continued life, we are pained by the memory. We are only ever in pain, at the time of the beloved’s departure, because we still love them. Whether that be in death, or in a simple leave, the eternity of love is proven upon a singular realization: that, the rooms are empty, though they never left.”– Modern Romanticism
Beauty is born upon her, with marks to her fields of skin. Imperfections that amount to the truths of this once-wounded woman. Cured by absence, though remains scarred in this man’s heart. Remains treasured more in his mind, than that orb of red. Of memories within bleakest stains, that never fade. They are the shadows. They are all the blows to which he simply tolerates. Of love, to which never reminds him it is fine to hurt. There is something that remains in him, of living sickness that borders upon her haunting appearance.
She could remind any man of something once there, though now not. Of someone to be led to safety, reprimanded for her idealistic and punishing ways. Of someone whose eyes were blank, though now are to be filled with the same security the man has deposited into himself.
For she reminded this man of life. Of its cruelty, of all barbaric minds that nestle within its light. Of shadows that leak through the radiance. She reminded this man of life’s toil, though now to be coursed upon a different direction, from the extended sickness.
Of beauty that descends itself through curl of tress, with plainness of attire. Brown to white, with a former entrance to the hair that runs over an erected neck, with loving smoothness. Brass to the discoloration of a non-pigmented flesh, for she is as pale with death like all fallen birds. Brown hair to pale skin, to plain attire, with of the second mentioning as identical to a dress without design.
What one somber bird she was to him, with a face that startles the sun in him to set, loosening tears over the edges to silenced eyes. He could kiss, as he could drown in her storm. He could draw from her the waters, to consume with gusto that which could not be elsewhere noticed. To beauty’s beyond, of a horizon that had set her light, to shadows that are now limitless.
Curl of tress, to plainness of attire, then to a smile that warps itself as a frozen curve. To remind him of a street that rounds in the winter, born of ice, healing like warmth, though never fades.
“To the woman, whose graceful shape is often seen by the man as perpetually imperfect, is merely the onset to wasted time. When he hurls criticism, though never corrects, it is that he stares to her external mask. Nothing is corrected, for that mask is the attempt by her for correction’s sake. He’ll not ever look upon the woman, herself, when sending gazes just to the exterior. Could a woman feel penetrated, by his stare? If so, then through his loving eyes, she is beautiful by the woman of her, not by the form of her.”– Modern Romanticism
“We say that love remains, calling our hurts forward, due to that trust was betrayed. We say we hurt, out of betrayed trust, due only to love being the haunt, being the memory that remains. Though, to love, divided from trust, it is to the former where we place the certainty of it. Not ever to die, as love cannot, making trust our source of fragility to each broken fragment of our heart. As it is, when trust is gone, love is pouring from our unguarded hearts to stain our fingers.”– Modern Romanticism
“It is love, overwritten by the importance of trust, that we say the former might die, while buried alive. For we are to trust the one we reveal all of ourselves to, making love merely the buried background of a sun that warms our backs. We do not see love, yet we feel it. Though, it is not the ending of love that is the occurrence, upon betrayal of trust. For is it not the reason, upon betrayal of trust, that our pain rises because we still love them?”– Modern Romanticism
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.
“If love hurts, then love will survive. One should know the difference between the pain of loss, and the pain of sacrifice, in love. For if one has given their heart, then one has sacrificed themselves. That is the pain, to be named as the happiness for what one should know was a worthy departure from themselves. Love does not slide, nor is it fleeting. Trust slides. Trust is fleeting. As we can break ourselves to that pain, to that sacrifice, to our love, we can feel comfort around them, as they realize the extent of that pain to ease it. Trust will move away into the pain of loss, when we realize where we were vulnerable might be that our secrets are soon betrayed. Love merely remembers, even in the current disposition of hatred for that betrayed trust.”– 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
“No guilt should be felt, upon realizing one is weak, while in love. Love is that, a strength and a weakness. Knees tremble, hands quivers, because we care for what we may lose. Love is that, an emotion that encapsulates all other emotions. We realize that our finding, being that love, cannot go, without us losing ourselves, as well. Love is that, a reflection that makes us not want to see anything else, be distracted by anything else, be satisfied with anything else.”– Modern Romanticism
A: How much do you love her?
B: It’s not a question of how much, but that I just do.
A: Then, it’s never a question of how much you would do for her?
B: It’s rather a question of how much she trusts me to do for her.
“Not the love, but the trust, that quits its breath. For nothing hurts more of the ended romance, than knowing we still love them. Such means, that not love, but the trust, always dies. We love them, still remaining hurt, though our trust, our closeness, is now the parting. For as love dwells in the mind, as trust is for the body, then we cannot believe love will die, so long as memories remain.”– Modern Romanticism
This tale depicts a mentally ill convict, who represents the anti-hero, who cannot help but to feel immediate regret for the disgrace he has placed upon his wife and daughter. For the certain mistake and crime he made, he has been placed in prison for 10 years.
At the beginning of “No Love Barred”, the anti-hero receives a final visit from his wife, who places both her wedding and engagement ring before him. She tells him that she has filed divorce papers. She abandons him. A strong scene ensues of the husband pounding at the glass wall before him with his fists, pleading for her to return.
Throughout the 10 years confined in a prison, the anti-hero continually wonders on the state of his family. He becomes refined through the guilt and the worriment, to build a better state of mind.
After the 10 years elapses, he exits from prison to search for his family.
The daughter, who plays a pivotal role in “No Love Barred”, acts as the main connection between the anti-hero and his wife. She was only 3-years-old when he was incarcerated, and 10 years later, she is 13.
The daughter’s connection is displayed in terms of physical and metaphysical properties. As in, her face likens to the mother’s own, while her wonderment over a missing father becomes paramount. Her curiosity makes her search, on her own, for information on him.
All information is hidden from the daughter, by the mother, and any attempt to ask her about him, is met with vagueness.
This novel shall have a focus on “slow emotional development” of the anti-hero and his family. A duality of perspectives is to be shown, here, with a similarity by the father’s searching, along with the daughter doing the same.