Part of how memory and the hippocampus works is that it creates predictions and expectations based on your interpretation of events and the world. When Plato wrote about forms, he elevated these ideas of objects above the objects themselves. The form is the world in your mind, the form is fairness – the form is future and past. That is the bedrock that Integralism is built on. Expectation is fascism – it is fairness within hierarchy. Fairness is romantic, romanticism is soul, and the soul is the form. “Make someone happy”. But then, the black storm cloud comes over the horizon and the future is obscured. You are made to be naive. You are made to be humiliated and rejected. There is no smile that cheers you or face that lights when it nears you. Your sheets are untucked and the warmth of a familiar blanket evaporates into the ether. You are made to feel small, trivial, and insignificant. “Your truth and my truth are a lie, as is your father’s, and his father’s before him”. We simplify reality, because our curiosity has better aims than to examine the same tulip for the thousandth time. “You don’t know what you have until it’s gone”. This is evil, and fairness is good. Expectations should not be shattered. Emotions – love should not be exploited. Our future becomes death. Love stops being an answer – not even a variable. Romanticism is autocracy, romanticism is military junta, romanticism is absolute monarchy. Romanticism is a song that moves between order and chaos – it is the wave moving with the moon and breaking on the shore. It is a fairy tale with a moral. It is a narrative with good guys and bad guys. It is an old man with a twinkle in his eye telling stories of fallen empires. It is a pair of blue-green eyes to come home to, and the future you build around them. But the world is not built around men, it is built around reality – nothing to cling to. The two are completely incompatible. Altruism is love. If your ideology is not humancentric, what does it serve? What does anything in life serve without a destination more romantic than oblivion? Nothing. Every step – every action carries the weight of a million black holes collapsing upon themselves. The world is encircled by a plague of infernal locusts; they block out the sun and eat the form itself. Your body is thrown into hellfire and a spiked mace is forced down your throat. Recontextualization is arduous. Who you are, that form, is gone forever.