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Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Novel – Chapter IV – “Signs of a Man in Love” – Romance – 9/17/2019

September 17, 2019
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Hope is a well that springs eternally the warmth of possibility.

Though, for each individual possibility, there should be a guide so that further loss is not eventual, and never inevitable. A leader, that is, should reassure the sorrowful that there is greater light than such a hopeless one can ever consume, to fill whatever void has been created.

Beauty has a message:

Beauty asks for one of two things, “I must be protected,” or “I must be destroyed,” while the former is fulfillment, while the latter is mere temptation. A desecration of life, does a woman yearn to fulfill herself in this; and could she step upon a flower to feel fulfilled, or perhaps destroy the entire universe? Temptation is an infinite thing, and upon its path, the only thing that is represented is failure, the death of many things. As for each life, the only failure to conquer it, is the one that kills it.

We speak of all this, soon when Joseph enters his beloved’s abode, which to him, was his own previous abode.

And he finds his woman strangled by braided twine.

He finds what she remains as, the grace of tears, the notion granted from loss, and her hair! Her hair, such a latter detail from the previous fewest words, represent now the multitude of wires that engross the finality of humanity. To become the corpse, would be to become the machine. The puppet, to which we find it mattering to say should be controlled.

A lifeless thing, her named was Barbara, the love of Joseph, too stricken by his abandonment to edge herself further through life. Wires for hair, alike the machines that are beginning to conquer the industry of our setting in London.

Fear.

Failure.

Torment.

All words now a part of a bruised puzzle becoming wholesome flesh, as Joseph kneels to the defeat of himself. He does not speak, though rather chooses to rub his face in the floor, below him.

His tears run as the dew that folds itself over leaves in the morning. Like the leaves that bend when the dew droplets make their travel to the pointed end, Joseph, as well, bends his form close to the floor, by the same maneuver. Angelic, it seems, that his torment has become, and more is guilt the persistence to reveal that torment; for that is because he is closer, himself, to dying, and relating himself to the hanged corpse, before him.

He feels a sense of shaping, as though his soul is calling him into the body, before him. The body that has a wind against its skin, so that it has begun to swing. It would not bleed, not even in description of that its blood has ceased to flow, though in that such a woman named Barbara would not show remorse.

She had done this deliberate act for proof, and only this, perhaps in hopes of a coming stranger, or even Joseph, to find her.

Every suicide is an act of proof.

Those who say to each of them determined to end all, the words that go by the ever-more deliberation of doubt, are received with words that say, “If only I had said otherwise.”

Would further love turn this tragedy mended? A failure that Joseph has engrossed himself upon, has allowed to show wound upon wound in himself; and now, he only shows kindness to the floor, because he kisses it. He wets it with his tears that blossom freely from his eyes. They would be like blood, were ever Joseph to hold pain as physical.

A wound of the heart, is always cured by love. It is a fixation, a focus, this emotion, this feeling, that is determined to heal. And yet, love may only heal the heart.

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Words of Wisdom – “Men of Epstein” – 8/29/2019

August 29, 2019
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“Confine the man, and he’ll not find the bars that cage him to be his true prison. With a monster, darkness should be its only company. Why does the monster dwell in darkness? It is so the monster cannot see its own wounds. Allow any particle of light to interfere, and the monster sees its own reflection, and becomes horrified. Confine the man, who is the monster, and the monster will have no choice but to do only one of two things: to sleep, or to contemplate. In contemplation, the bars, nor perhaps the cave, nor even the darkness itself, becomes not the confinement; for the skull of the monster, where dwells the mind of the monster, are its haunting. Keep the monster in total darkness, and the monster sees no shadows. Introduce light, and once again, it is repeated that the monster will see itself. Man is a beast, and he roars. Sodom and Gomorrah, in wherever an Atheist will blame God for the world’s suffering, is not comprehended as the transpired event, only in result of a refusal to listen to the monster’s call. To God’s call, to a terrible beginning, alike to perhaps a still-born infant. Of death and sleep; and then, the notion of the beast and its action. A monster will distract itself with further devious acts. The monster demands only two things, at the furthest extremes: sympathy or further bloodshed.”

Poem – “Guarantee me Death” – Suicide

July 11, 2019
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Pain, I have endured,
And pain, I never silenced.
Pain has always been company,
My neighbor, my friend.

Pain has always flowed,
Behind me,
To show me,
The sands of a thirsty shore.

The disease called pain,
Has been my cure,
Has been my reminder,
To who I am, the miserable one.

Fate has always controlled me,
Made me one with a sadness,
Fate made me loathe,
As hate made me roam.

My body is a pile,
Atop another pile.
My eyes seem to sunder,
The world into oblivion.

My fortune has increased,
But my denial has increased.
My death will prove myself,
The coward, who betrayed pain.

Poem – “I Don the thought of Suicide, without my Love” – Romance

June 27, 2019
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Oh, so open, is my heart,
To the currents beneath my feet.
I have fallen in love with death,
And released the veil from its eyes.
Death has shown me a profound pleasure,
An old song of ribs used as chimes.

Beautiful, though vainly spoken,
What beauty? What mercy resonates in it?
Have I once loved? Where is the light?
Death surrounds me as the blades surround
The sickened and deathly lamb.
I speak pitiful words from my frozen heart.

She, as the love, grows warm eyes to death,
I was loved, by her, and now I love death.
I had failed what was once meant to be unity.
Useless and torn, spoken and forlorn.
Famed by the lovelorn face, she has more for her.
I found death, and death has spoken.

I once grew tulips from a garden of ivory.
From flesh, there were many bouquets
That grew upwards to Heaven.
She was within that garden, and chose to see,
And take, the beautiful sadness from me.
Each time she whispered, I felt my love break free.

Love! Have I grown tired of it?
Am I still one with life? Death has made itself aware
To my presence, and has made it untimely.
There is frailty leaking around me,
Its coldness is so much the feathers that drop.
And my music has become the unknown.

Suicide is a noose, and its action is the leap,
From a chair to never reach the floor.
When I loved, I loved forever,
Until I realized what ‘forever’ represents,
A failure, and not a failure,
A future and a present, collapsed together.

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