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A Masquerade of Embellishing Mysteries
Mystery is a beautifier unlike any other.
Romanticism requires a bit of ignorance. There is a shade of mystery to all romantic things, and, of course, mystery itself is just a romanticized shade of ignorance. All that is magical or fanciful or awesome is a silhouette yet to be detailed. In many ways, causality is the enemy of romanticism. Rarely do the inner workings of a thing fail to detract from its romantic qualities. What separates magic from science other than an elucidation of the causal sequence behind the happenings in the one? Likewise, what allows all of the most charming people to appear as such but the cosmetic of mystery which hides all of their grotesque flaws and failings?
This cosmetic is by no means the exclusive privilege of strangers. None of us could bear knowing everything about the people we love. Of all the horrors that occupy this Earth, to see our dearest friends and lovers in the fullest light of day — to have eyes for their every moment of perversion and cowardice and iniquity and cruelty — and to observe all of those evils that pass through their minds, which we humans so wisely keep secreted away — this, would be the most grotesque and disheartening sight.
Woe to any lover who has to see the organic joy and naturalness their beloved once displayed as they held and were…
