Love is the element, the emotion, that relieves the oppressed mind from fear. True love, for true oppression, is the relief. For what is meant by “true”, is to never compare such things to the word “illusion”.
For Alessio, nothing is realer than the feeling, itself.
Something is lost to him, meaning that something is meant to be remembered. It is the morning, and despite him holding a mug of caffeine in his hand, there is a bottle before him, filled with half its liquid. Intoxicated upon pessimism, and now we see Alessio’s gaze hovering upon it, that bottle, like two subtle sunrays peering through dense clouds.
Like a singular beaming of light from his head, the tip of the lighthouse, reaching to a ship, as if whatever is reflected is his very felt emotion.
Then, as if he’s a captain upon that lonely vessel, without even a crew to lift his morale, he is faced with the temptation. To reach for it, take a swig from it, and perhaps bleed just a few tears from slits in his eyelids.
As if being the captain, who wishes to abandon what is fated to sink, and that is the definition of the pessimist.
To sink or to swim, as is typically is the case of the survivor, and that is the definition of Alessio Neil.
What of that portrait upon the wall?
In a previous moment, his eyes were upon her eyes. A woman’s eyes, as we have said her appearance is very much identical to Alessio’s own.
He has torn away his stare. Was it too painful?
He becomes mirthful, in this moment, as though some imagined thought brought him to thinking on another minute in time, but drunken.
Love has a humorous way of telling a tale, weaved on a path where stones and rivers do not make their own sounds. Motherly love. That is the love we mean, when Alessio parts his lips to say aloud, “Mother,” with a face so stern, still with eyes upon the bottle.
Another word comes forth, “Loneliness,” and as if to blink, he does this, though holds his eyelids closed, as if remembering something.
The painted face. The woman’s face upon the wall. Is it his mother’s face? It must be his mother’s face, for who else would it be?
She is not at all talkative, as simply an image on the wall, painted with strokes like delicate motions of a hand. As if the artist was either paid to be careful, or was careful of their own accord, and it does not matter which. The care to this painting is apparent, and so much the choice of the artist, so much the choice of a woman to have care for such a face. So beautiful in every inch of her porcelain skin, and the ruby cosmetic applied to her lips.
She would have been young when the painting was made. Crafted by an artist, with the result allowing each viewer to be in awe and admiration, as it must have been during its initial showcase.
Love has no right to be forgotten. Though, it is a privilege for it to be captured.