“Written in the ways of purism, is the idea that one blood is inferior, or lacking in quality, over another. To base politics around race, around gender, around creed, is to recede to the aristocracy mentality, though swapped. It is to say that impurity is purity. Perhaps it is that we are all the same, though not in the way everyone wants.”
– Modern Romanticism
Who is pure, in this world of worlds? Who can say whether one person has more in-depth understanding to their “self-discovery”, over another? Who is purer, to another, whose bloodline, whether crossed or stagnant, is only ever different?
It can continually return to the idea that a person, whose bloodline is only different, can be made brand new. Of a bloodline, brand new, it is the same as a bloodline, pure. It is the same as to see something more divisive than any aristocrat, who had power in the past, could make for competition’s sake. For do these people with their “identity” not relate to very obscure bloodlines, so alien from the common man?
All a person knows, so well of themselves, is that they can bleed, just like anyone else.
“Identity politics” is, therefore, an exact relation to aristocracy, in terms of the curiosity for the potency of blood. We can comprehend our ancestry, through a simple “Google search”. Whereas, in the past, we knew it by whoever had sexual intercourse with a woman. We can dig so deep in the past, to discover our identity’s “potential”, and then, become proud of who we are. For to be proud of who we are, is no different than any tyrant who would want to appear good, rather than do good.
The love of blood, is the love of making a statement. And, when do we become the vampires, who like Elizabeth Bathory, drenched herself in a virgin’s own? We do so, by accumulating newness. We make new bloodlines, discovering percentages of ourselves in our supposed “ancestry”. Again, in the pride of who we are, we forget to be proud for what we can do. That makes us ruling tyrants, that without the offered shame for this identity, we can conceal guilt.
People can be wounded, not of guilt, though for pride. Though, whenever will we give in, to a guilt that tells us we have bled others, for the sake of keeping what we most know of ourselves? We have bled other people’s pride, not ever giving in to this guilt we know we feel. Because, for how sour an aristocratic person’s expression can be, we overlook our guilt for how much we bleed. We put to death, another person and their supposed guilt, whether at the stake or at the hanging. To burn, or to choke, is the only punishment a person with a supposed sin, can receive.
It is to those that know we all bleed, that make those who are so vain for their identity, released of their head from their shoulders. Yet, they’ll still run around without intelligence, without recognition, and without identity. Because, as they believe in blood, the rest believes in sameness. The common man believes in same blood, same identity.
Consume the offered shame. Feel your inner guilt. Punish yourself.
Modern Romanticism 