This is the cover of a new book filled with Japanese woodcuts and paintings. The newest picture in the anthology is 150 years old. These were mass-produced for the Japanese and were actually very successful. Not all of the art is from the mass-produced prints, such as images from the “Hell Scrolls.” This art applies to the horror fan in an art-lover, as they are some of the most disturbingly, horrifically beautiful things ever made. Also, it’s still more proof that depravity isn’t a feature of modern society, but has been around for much longer. Older, more purportedly “conservative” societies even embraced that depravity.
She makes me laugh uncontrollably. And quite possibly acts cuter than anyone ever could. <3
My love,
Well heated as his accommodation.
I rewire his energy
When he dangerously sparks with inspiration.He is the lonely artist,
Fulfilling the empty gallery of my heart.
Infusing color into my pulse,
Establishing only the most stunning art.My blood,
A nourishment to his deprivation.
Yearning for consent,
I am his feast of dedication.He is the empty serpent
Scanning my essence, composed yet high strung.
Boiling through my veins
His venom so vivid, I can taste it on my tongue.My thoughts
Are rays glimmering through his leaves.
As crucial as sunlight,
I am every idea he perceives.He is the inquisitive tree
Whose roots worm throughout the soil of my brain.
My mind flowers open,
As I disregard the destruction and the pain.
I love her. Any efforts against so would be as fruitful as attempting to extinguish the sun. As the tears run down my cheeks compound the fog that no light can penetrate and sting freshly-shaven cheeks, I can see the disparity in what the love between us brings one another. My impaired vision gives me the clarity I’ve needed. She brings me endless joy, the perfect being that one’s entire life is dedicated to finding. I bring her pain, uncertainty, paranoia, apprehension. If only I could find a way to extinguish the sun, she would be happy. The pain that she thinks she has brought me is incomparable to that which my existence brings her.That pain I feel deep, deep down, brings me everlasting joy, since I know that I have finally found that being. Her presence will forever invade my dreams, but she is more welcome there than she could ever be elsewhere. There, our love is perfect, she can stomach it, it doesn’t bring her that pain. May I remove such perfection from my slumber and into consciousness. What could my life be for, but to secure her happiness. I can fathom no other purpose bestowed upon me. I shall be her toy, and take whatever may come in our doomed tryst, for nothing could match that happiness she makes me feel when I am hers, and she is mine. No knife, bullet, or bludgeon would change that, or my mind. Bring whatever may come. I have nothing but love to give her, and it cannot be impeded.
There is a resurgence of Romanticist ideals in society today. The Enlightenment thinkers that worked so hard to promote reason have been overthrown, their ideas cast into the abyss by all but the most intelligent. But do we not all still bear the thoughts of a Romanticist in some, even the most minute, aspect of our being? For it is inescapable, whether it be in love, work, spiritualism. Those ideals invade the most intimate parts of our lives, raping and pillaging those most important features of being, destroying that which simple reasoning and rationale could salvage.
And I will make him stop.
It isn’t likely…