Her appearance had been, as it still is, a force of endearment over Anton’s visage, washing his face with her colors. Everything he was witness to, during her life, is again, written even now in every crease to his cheeks and lips. It is this way, while he strains to withhold tears. While he strains to withhold sobs, forcefully subduing emotions, it is not without a man’s plight to say to himself to never reveal his own. Why have we told ourselves society be at fault, when the man will say to himself these ongoing punishing words, without another man near to him? He will possess the utmost out of choice, and claim strength where it is wanted, not needing to rely on another man’s aim to see him ruthless to his emotions.
Though, in what leaves from him, are the stutters, indeed professing emotion to the wind that trails itself before his lips. Wind that beholds itself an intrusion to this abode, somewhat wealthy in all its decor, from an open window to the left of Anton.
A breeze, a gust or two, and then a mere gentle sigh all enter through the crevice to the window in various turns. Late in the day, and close to the apocalypse of nighttime, where shadows cast in corners are for memories of late. It is when Anton can be welled in his drear, while seeing the portrait before him, hung as it is, seemingly for the longest time.
He has placed his eyes to it, in admiration of it, while it shows its age above that mantle with bleak, dotted smudges. As though willfully unkempt to the passage of the last many years, because is a memory not always as dusty as it is only rarely to be touched? A memory just as old, as perhaps Anton’s own soul is, will be groomed over in the same dust of age and sheltering.
We say he stutters, though Anton does not speak. Only blurbs form from his lips, not worth repeating in the gibberish pronounced. Perhaps they be murmurs of something he means to say, though is simply unable to release. How can any person buried to be a fossil in their own mud of memories, know something of what to reveal out in the world, when it is sometimes that we yearn for another person to discover them? Don’t we, as those conflicted with the ideas of stale loss, come to want another person to see our mind for what it is, drowned around in the issue of being lost?
She is beautiful, this woman, revealed not for a name, when Anton still murmurs silently to himself, uttering inaudible words that mean next to nothing for clarity.
Shown for her blonde locks that trail roads of gold over the sides to her head, the temples, as though each strand were the shimmer of an ore vein in a cast of stone. That stone, being her head, rounded in the shape of being ovular, with a complexion deep in the brightness of whatever merriment caused the appearing smile. That smile, bringing deep hues to Anton’s eyes, welled in the tears he forces not to let break free from their dams.
Her cheeks, rounded and moon-like, for the pale tone to her skin is also complimented with a rosy blush, never seeming to fade, when it would upon her death. Through a strict set of even shoulders, a neck rises to meet all of her features, so kissable by the narrow lips of Anton. While those shoulders have met the multiple caresses by Anton’s hands, it is that they are bare within this portrait, that they have been captured to show a radiance. Perspiring gleams, as there is much to the lighting of this portrait, coming from somewhere to the left. As though the darkness of the now-settling night, could be replaced with the briskly-formed daylight, snowing in its downpour of highlights for her.
Life is a goddess’s temple, while love would be God’s kingdom, as the former is to mourn for the loss of the latter. In life’s loss of love, there are all too frequently the statements of where the river carries the soul. Where does one tread? Where does one go, once the heart stops moving? A river had been said, and though the veins, vessels, and arteries quit their flow, it is most certainly not the end. If what life can be said as related to existence, then it must be the thing so related to non-existence that created life. So the Atheist must be wonted to believe that existence created the existence, though in what fashion does that occur, without in the most mass producing manner? Love is abandoned in such a world.
To relate that topic to Anton’s present state of his mind, is enough like everything that Anton has thought of. Details can be revealed, can they not? Reader, to imagine Anton the trustee of his emotions, his feelings, and to be a mute, he’d suppress them so easily to not desire another to see them. The loner, the mute, and the devotee to his own emotions, makes Anton subconsciously aware of that open window. He imagines, out of paranoia, that another could be in sight of his glistening eyes, from somewhere far off.
Behold of beauty, deep in her visage, the visual torment for Anton, as such a memento to a heart would be to anyone. A life dressed in white, while now a love dresses itself in black, is all too much the darkness that laces itself around Anton with the depression he feels so strongly.
A white, a newness he cannot fathom. A black, a darkness he’s aware of, just like the open window he’s paranoid of, in thinking another may see him, even this late in the hour of night.