Romantic awe is like stroking your fingers along the inner traces of a sobole clock, so close to recess, so moved as to recoil. Romantic awe is lambast in sheep skin, too close to forging tidings; too far from our god-mother’s solstice embrace. What I have spent time attempting to warn you about is the center of created awe, disillusion with one’s own inert proposals, does not come at the cost to the formalized awe that with discipline can be contained, revitalized, and shown into the door of custom, which is the social mores of receding palms of caress and fortune. But it all takes time.
Just as it takes time to win a battle of courage, so, too, does romantic awe demand we witness its labors without conceit or social propriety laced in dormant affairs of now fixed-illusions with tranquil observers. When we function as a social unit, adhesive to dormant glue, we find we can surface from muddy waters and deliver the stolen promises of yesterday’s fathers. It is not that we want to revisit the past, no, let that sink into the obscure, but we do require force fields of social magnetism that instill and inspire a grifty weight of (re)placed desire into the whims of tomorrow’s key primary and reserved locusts of hope; hope and desire, desire for pure normalcy that is not tainted with the awe of permanent loss.
Does this really happen? You might be asking this question with a fixed idea of time and space and (re)wound(ed) clocks that do not turn nor drizzle out complete commands. In that you should find your answer. Incompletion follows you like a storm that grows in the evening, fermenting stolen coins and silver waitresses. Incompletion holds many answers. You know this. This is what brought you here. To me. To us. To our shared dream for a release and attained tranquility of time and space and niceties in dreams that are manifest in our daily lives.
Incompletion does not have to be a lambast of appraisal. Social awe does not have to be dependent on shifting mores of distilled waters that train grains of rebuilt soliloquies into forced, resurgenet tides. Just as there are generational gaps in our shared retreat, there is even more in common with awe that justifies neighborliness and rhythms of social order that lift the individual not as a merchant or tired host, but as a portion of the collective sphere of truth; what truth, but that which becomes the other and domesticates those shares sympathies into romantic traits that are neither stalwarts of denial or masked indifference for the dominant status quo.
Romantic awe is a philosophy of dreams ever so present, but oh so tempted and forced into despair by the constant countering weight of ascribed motives for justice and the normalcy of dominant patterns of interest that interfere with our mind’s eye and formulated rhythms of understanding and peaceful kindness. The social conventions and customs of law are violence intended to maintain power for the elite. True power is in an individual’s ability to maintain order in disarray, silence in upheaval, and internal bliss among the storm of the social alliance of harping violence.
The philosophy of dreams makes loose ends of all notions of incompletion and frees oneself into expression, art, love, friendliness, and shared arrival. A philosophy of dreams is liberation from social customs and mores of denial. However, we cannot begin to trace this understanding and incorporate these natural laws of governance into our waking hearts without the firm, calm, and steady rejection of denial of ascribed or enforced guilt that does not move the day or free us from our labors. In time, just time, we can wake from this disinheritance of our dreams and learn to walk in the waking fortunes of amassed potential and the fortitude of the natural promises of the intellectual soul.
Painting: Neo Rauch, Waiting for the Barbarians, 2007