u/Anxious_Rooster_1640

Oh how the wind befell

Toil in your broken sorrow

Scream your constant guise

Tho I can see through your eyes

With thy cursed device

We no longer think as one

Oh how the wind befell

Boil in your toiling misery

Exhale your murmured grunts

Excapate your constant lies

Tho i shall relent

Thou resentment in thy eye

Woe the displaced memory

In thy fragmented soul

For one can never be with held

For the lingering ghouls

That never cease to gnaw

Withheld my love from your shore

​

Culture didn’t dissipate — it fell.

Downward, into a long descent of pathological expressionism that feels endless, a train ride with no conductor and no brakes. What we call “modern culture” is really the after‑image of something greater, stretched thin across a society that no longer remembers how to look at anything for more than a second.

The remnants of our former greatness were thrown away like an ever‑fading candle in a room no one enters anymore. The artists who once carried the mystical and fantastical presence of their eras now feel like distant ghosts. Their work hangs in the air like a gallery of Mona Lisas, each one dimmed by thicker air and rougher walls — metaphorically and literally in some places.

We live in the residue of what came before.

And yet, in that residue, something still stirs.

A faint mythic pulse.

A refusal to die.

If you feel that too — if you’re tired of shallow culture, tired of the noise, tired of the flattening of everything meaningful — then you’re not alone. I refuse to be absorbed into this surface‑level world. If you’re also plagued by these questions, join me.