“Chapter One – Love” – from “An Unfinished Book” – 5/21/2020

Love. That emotion the foolish despise, or the wise will take up. It is that emotion that never lets the last breath escape, without the lover leaning to take it in. It is that emotion that does not let go, for it waits until time cannot move any more clocks, or when the galaxies cannot anymore swirl their infinite mass.

To speak of love in this manner, is for the purpose of knowing what it truly represents. The eternal. The fear of love, is only fear. To love, should mean to be strong. Yet, are we not both weak and strong at the same moment of being in love?

We are weak in love, in comprehension of what we may lose. We are strong in love, in comprehension of our fight to never lose.

So many will dance to the flames of war, though never without purpose, never without love. It is entirely the flames of the heart, that originates that blaze. It is entirely the sighs of passion, that raise the inferno to meet Heaven.

One man, of one love, of one love stuck to his heart with a cruel placement, for to him seems no more than sheer pain.

A bewilderment. A confusion. A stifled passion, and a heart that beats merely an echo off something it once beat for. A love. A dynasty of compassion that made this man choose a woman, over his own world. It is the choice of any man, to say that the dust of his life, cannot compare to who he loves. Who he is, as a man of form, as a man who he will say the words, “You are but a stone, meant to be placed on the meadow’s grass, meant to stay the winds from harming what is behind you”, to himself. For the man who loves, does not love himself.

This man, by the name of Anton Acton, will go to pray to the Lord, before a sight of dark. A window is not open, though is cleaned enough to be translucent to the ongoing night. Life has begun to bud from the trees, revealing arrangements of pink against their origin, the chestnut-colored boughs.

Anton simply stares, for the meanwhile, seeing where the impressions were formed in the praying chair, from his knees.

Whatever enters his mind enough to form the expression on his face, would be enough for any artist to capture. A life for the canvas, is merely the capturing of life, arranged as the movement it was captured in. Art holds no function, though displays the emotion of whatever seen to be necessary for the artist’s time. It is this time, that our Anton needs to relive a capturing. For to see the sight of where his knees have knelt, and then of his face for the expression he wears, could make any viewer want to be the abductor of this vision. Life is not the stone. Though, is it not life that depends on love, so that life can be protected by the stone?

His face, the image of pain. A pain that must come from somewhere deep, somewhere unknown to this time, somewhere too soaked in that sting to ever hold a fragment of clarity. He captures the sight of where he prayed, on so many times to God.

He has not spoken, this Anton, neither to himself, nor to God when he should find the nerve to walk to the praying chair. Silence surrounds. It surrounds his deep nature, of wherever he walks in his own mind.

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