We choose morals we fail all the time.

It is not in the nature of Man to be as he

wishes to be--that is, as soon as the moment to choose what and what he shall act
comes, he has that all-too-human proclivity of falling pray to saliency over what
is truest, realest, most beautiful, what ought to be done. It is in the nature of
Man to be a liar. Man is a liar in what he is, in what he does, and what he will
become. And that is, perhaps, both comfort and origin of guilt.
In the end, to be sure, one must keep in mind that one most important thing: that
one is what he is meant to be, that one is what he was created to be: a source of
love, a source of that transcendent force which so impels all creatures to return
to what once they were--to become, as it were, the figureheads of a new tomorrow.
What? And one does not understand that love is the source of all beginnings and
endings? That it is as much a cause of terror as it is salvation? That love, in all
its beauty, must necessarily subject a man to judgment, for love, though it does
not speak, though it blinds itself, though it, to all intents and purposes, sins by
committing the vilest act that one may do: to see beyond--even then, love acts
much like the pugilistic fires within the hammering furnaces of a dwarven city,
where, underground, spews the boiling tongues of lava which melts and kills as soon
as it touches.
I mean, of course, that since Love is ideal, since all that aims for love must
necessarily aim for that which is beyond, that which can unite two beings that
cannot be more disparate, diverse, disconnected from each other and call them a
couple, to hold together what was once in origin twain--since Love must unite, the
pieces must first give up a part of what they are, beliefs, prejudices, frameworks
embedded into the way that they think, the way they act and, even deeper, the way
they see the world. Love, then, acts both as a knife stone and a duller. That one
can love only when he is pure enough, sharp enough for all the twists and turns,
the unprecedented slipping into nooks and byways, as it were, but, at the same
time, that he is just dull enough that all flaws, scars, and smudges that perfuse
the canvas of his lover's character. In fact, even the potential for what one can
do is ignored itself--the deformed canvas is itself considered equal and--terrific
thought!--one with the lover.
Yet one must not mistake this for simple Romanticism, that licentious, loose and
lascivious degradation of the Medieval outlook upon the world, which, in its own
right, has been destroyed, degraded, and depraved in the sentimental marches and
hymning of modern society.-- For love is itself a tragedy: love cannot be limited
to where joy can be contracted from; love is cold, broken, a poison which sets
afire the heart of man with great fervor and high spirit and then, slowly, like an
Icarus who, in horrified joy, has flown far too close to the sun and must, in turn,
perish for his pride, for his lightness, for his instantiation of Man's first and
greatest sin.--Indeed, the psychologist must not cease with the blooming spring
that so attacks a man's heart during the first, mollifying days of his marriage; he
must also account for those days, decades after, where a man's greatness of spirit,
his--resilience--if you will permit me this expression, is tested, forged, or, on
the other hand, completely torn, rended, and thrown to the dust bin where, along
with that, any sense of honor, grace, and integrity rides on the coattails of that
crumpled virtue.
It is the duty of the lover then to be grave and serious but not too grave and
serious; to be light and airy, but not too light and airy; to be loving but not too
much; interested but not obsessed; loving but not oppressive;--and yet even these
calculations seem to fall apart whenever the touch of the lover presses against
one's cheeks. Time passes slowly. Perhaps even dances--to the tune of one's own
liking. Enough; my roots are showing.

You are a burning poem that deserves worship

Let your tongue be my river to Paradise
Let the prophets sing of grace when your eyen
sing the fluorescence of the morning
Do with me as you will--I shall give up everything
to those shoulders which, contouring, touch
the chests of a man and opens it, as one does a casket.

It is the nature of the modern world to be obsessed with two things: simulacra and
sentimentality. But perhaps that is its greatest fault, no, being the postmodern
sensationalism that it is? That, in harkening back to the past, it can only degrade
it or, more annoyingly, make ironic commentaries about the latter and do away with
all traditional patterns altogether, which, in its right, creates coherence and
comprehension to the readers. They do not wish to take this too far of course, for
if they apply it as it should be applied, they will never be able to communicate
what it is that they wish to communicate. They can never fully inhabit the chaos,
the tradition, the pattern that pervades communication and consciousness. Always,
they, like a parasite, must reaffirm what it is that they wish to make a commentary
on, what they wish to degrade, what they wish to deconstruct.
On the subject of simulacra, however, one recalls the sector of tourism. For
tourism is only national prostitution. It must always make a comedic caricature, a
fake profile, a curated mosaic of what the country is, changing it to what it--
must--be and what it ought to be. Of course, we do not go too far with our ideas
here--to reveal oneself too quickly is refrained from in seduction.