How easy it is to be critical and dismissive. But how infinitively impossible it is to revive a heart that’s been mortally wounded. In a time of continual manufactured crises that serves only to feed the illegitimate fantasies of a population that once had the makings of something individually human but that has now been turned into a mob. In this time to lift up one’s gaze and extend forth a hand to tenderness seems like stretching a limb outward from the grave. Love may consume passion over time but too often indifference consumes one’s soul. Better hate than the destination of a long and winding path to the realization of one’s faults and the abiding sorrow that follows one’s every step thereafter. No heart can recover from this slow subtle desiccation as one can no longer enjoy youth when it has finally passed. Life becomes memory after memory in disorder that floats past as if locked upon a phenakistoscope. Smell and touch are muted to the point of abrasion. Even pain has no more affect than to constantly nag the body like some misplaced appointment that one cannot get a handle upon. Those given early in life to Romanticism must pay the price of entrapment in nihilism as the shadows of life’s conclusion begin to draw about one’s vicinity. How fatal some unsuspected petty action. Written off to a minor folly but transcribing one’s continued existence into a major flaw. Glowing dimly in the background of the mind’s candlelight, a phantom that has grown to an extreme of pathos and tragic beauty of a sort that can never exist upon earth. This is the sort of demon that no one can defeat.
Demons Past And Long Borne