Riddle me this

Inked Thoughts and Midnight Monologues


I pity the classicists of the 18th century. Blind devotions. Lust for sanity. Pestilence and empty wit. I recently read about how they were deceived by the dulling film of familiarity which they never tried to see through. The romanticists knew better. They scraped off this film and draped the world in the light of their imagination and well, everything struck them with iridescent, prismatic effects. I could’ve been a Byron but never a Wordsworth. I have never known the surface, I’ve always been friends with profundity. And meaning. I don’t see Nature as a spiritual being, capable of making me serene. I have come to terms with how I can never know calm, not because it’s beyond me but because I cannot, I just cannot live with it. Chaos makes you descend into madness. But, it is the only way to evolve. Sometimes, I tend to ask questions to myself…

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