The romanticism that stirs within

Economy of language demands strict precision. No word or punctuation will be employed without purpose. This is how I was taught to write in ESL. As time passed, disenchantment emerged. Why should I contort my thoughts to fit such rules? And in adolescence, composition was infected with romanticism. Even Baudelaire would wretch at the prose produced by a decadent youth. They were empty expressions of unrequited passion, groping for an object of "affection". This Affection concealed wretched narcissism. The object of affection summoned base desires, obsessed with perception. Alas, surfaces do betray its facility, and in doing so, wounds the inner romantic. Without the sensation of beauty, what can I have? The grotesque pulled him into the abyss. Beauty was lost, forever? One is never free from self-grandeur. It stirs within. The drama concocted within the self distracts, bemuses, and entertains the bored individual.