The End of Romanticism / Vapid Idyll
The fiction of modernity is stronger now than ever, as the fiction of the past falls farther from our field of vision, and the angels of eternity turn to ash in our mouths and disintegrate. Modern metaphysics is pure history now – physics itself is all that remains of metaphysics. Modern literature is as popular as ever, and the written word is grossly disseminated, freely, sluttishly, as it was always meant to be. The world truly is an abstraction. The intellectuals have won. Modern poetry, at least, though coquettish, is beautiful – there are still poets in the world. Though marginalized to the brink of obsolescence, the spirit of the times finds permanence, form, and function in the last few verses of the modern day. Tomorrow they will be history, as all of history before us is, and modernity will be something else entirely. But that is the way of the world, and that is the virtue of secular life. Plato thought that poetry was a vice, and it has not been proven otherwise. Men have never been wrong; we will never be right. It is all a creative fiction, as in a matrix, these matrices which define and which guide us, productions of ourselves and our worlds. The universe is not large – it is so small that you cannot conceive of it. Infinity is less than a moment, more minute than even fermions and bosons. And what are fermions and bosons, but theory, as there are infinite theories; infinity is less than a theory, as death is less even than life. Self-realization is the cross for every spiritual human to bear, and curiosity is the curse that we pray for salvation for.
I align myself now with inanimate objects. My emotions are too much, I am far too emotional. I have hidden my seriousness because it was frightening, to me and to others, but now I have nothing left to resort to. I am serious, now, and unless someone saves me, I might become inanimate. It is the only recourse for these sins.