Modern Romanticism

Wondering. Always wondering. At what? Only a mystery. It has been kept in a darkness, swelling in all its oceanic curves. Though, there is no symmetry. There is no place a certain divide can be viewed, should that be evidence of a clean divide.

We see her, jagged and raw. She looks over her shoulders, not to see the past, but to remind herself of what never was. A hand upon her shoulder never was. No one ever relaxed one of theirs there. There had not been a space of bare, cold flesh, being her shoulder, covered with a veil of warmth being a hand. Without that, she continues this act of looking back. Without that, it remains always a hope.

It stays as a mystery. As to her pain, for wherever it originates, it remains always in people’s eyes as a spectacle for the sake of wonder. There is no light in what all will see from it. And there is no one to create that light.

We watch. We take turns to speak from afar. Just as she stays there, we remain here, hoping she will come forth out of her shell of shadows. Just as we remain her, she stays there, hoping someone will pull her free from a premature grave.

We watch, as no one, neither us nor her, makes a move on that notion of hope.