Modern Romanticism

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

Words of Wisdom – “On How Love Penetrates the Heart” – 8/18/2019

August 18, 2019

“The seeming instinct for a woman is to close her eyes, during love-making, to focus on the feeling. What of love? It penetrates a woman’s yearning heart. The loveless woman is twisted, inside-out, and burns to know herself, love herself, because she trusts no one further than herself. It is the image of self-absorption, and colors of all shades of red, leak to create carelessness upon her skin. Grace has left her. Truth is shaped into any form. And dissatisfaction and change is continuous. She will transform. She will mutate. She will throw herself from bridges, skyscrapers, and cliffs to see some different color other than red. It doesn’t happen. She closes her eyes to see memories. To see the pain from the last year, the last month, the last week, and even the last second; and nothing will soothe it, but the lending hand. For a woman’s pride breaks, in an instant, once aid is offered. Offer a hand, and she will shatter. Offer a whisper of condolence, and she will crumble. She held herself high on two legs that trembled, and now she crashes to her knees. And for the first time, when she remembers the moment she first made love, it is for the next time, over and over again, that she is stabbed with the blade. Over and over again, she will expect more red, and more red than from the loss of virginity. A reminder, a bleak and morose reminder, to the first time, until it never is the last time, until a truth wields her body to make it as hard as her man.”


Excerpt from “The Roth Overlook” – Blog Author’s Novel – “The Taking of Purity”

July 22, 2019

Her hands tremble as she stumbles over a flurry of inquiries, “Was our touch worthy? Was what I offered enough to relieve you and provide the elixir you were seeking, or was it merely fodder for another one of your papers? Am I the inspiration for your work, like a muse is to an artist, or am I truly your beloved? What am I to you?”

Evidently, these are questions that breathe loathing upon Bastian, so he somewhat recoils from its devastative emanation. He looks at her, attempting to understand the many fractures of her soul and their alignment with each other, as if to witness the vividness of her torment in its entirety.

She has been the onlooker of his misery! She has also been the subject of his studies. In being his subject, she has encompassed the innocence of a young girl, and that innocence has transformed into something far more hideous. Ignorance. A truth that is not often voiced. Ignorance in such a case is not ever innocence. As innocence as a form of being safe is always denial to the dangers around the endangered. Ignorance is replaced by knowledge, as Anita had offered herself up to Bastian’s altar, as a virgin.

Anita may as well have been raped.

Encouraged, but also forced to sacrifice her purity for the sake of what she thought to be true love. A wholehearted intent, but the penetration that was involved was likened to being knifed by a dagger. Blood was involved. An object of hardness was involved. A knife of steel. A knife of rubber. Only the former has the intended effect.

She was the demon for his studies, the little playmate for the paper, written with a pen that was akin to the god between his legs. White paper like the purity that is now erased, and the colors that are now drawn on Anita’s countenance are no longer childish.

What had been more important to Bastian, in what he wished to conquer. It is a confusion that emanates the fumes of madness. A sinister notion of what makes soldiers become longing for the bed at home.

Words of Wisdom – “The Memory of a Woman” – 7/20/2019

July 20, 2019

“Let it be understood by all men, that a woman’s memory reaches as far back as the bloodline she’s created. No forty years, no thirty years, no twenty, no ten, may at all form an objection. The bloodline is advantageous by powerful motives, that hearken to purity. Those who stand by the bloodline to make the powerful empire, fit with the Monarch who is only a clone of previous ones, will find the womb of a woman to be the image of their creation. Subtlety, especially the kind utilized within today’s time, makes the womb’s creations not ever forceful, but subliminal in the way of creating an empire from the woman’s womb, and she’ll never see it as rape. She’ll never see the virginity stolen, though her mind and its doorways to memory has been prodded. Her womb used, and her body marked, by the corruption of political power to come, and its love made silent. Admiration is foregone, and to the so-called ‘object’, we no longer have the poetry of that admiration for Woman as an art. Love creates captivation in a viewing of completion. In that empire to be created, in that subtlety, and when a woman finds the taste of power to be slick alike to her newly-formed serpent tongue, she’ll not let go. When she once pleaded to a lover to never let her go; she now lets not go of the power she’s embraced. What of power? Corruption. What of love? Dominated by respect, challenged by respect, maintained by authority, and demanded attention by work. Memory! With its doorways and windows, and all openings; she, the woman of time, remembers all tragedy of all bruises upon her form. Love is a memory. Corruption utilizes the woman to become a shell. Death submits to her. Love is never forgotten by her.”