Grief is never so much a thing to conquer, in as much it is merely felt, like a leaf that had strayed from its branch. It has nestled itself into our shoulder, and stays there, not vowed for escape.
All tears carry weight, simple weight. All memories carry not weight, though force. We are not weighed by our memories. Though, we are more pulled by them. Like the most alluring type of gravity, we are countered from that escape, because grief has made us run in a memory’s direction. We want to feel pain, because pain is all to feel.
Like a drain, death has a path for life. Like a disguise, life has a way to reject death. Like a martyr, both life and death come to live, and recede away in the name of each other.
What have we, of a man that needs no name? For a name would render such weight of grief, needless. A name is such a brand, such a label, so needless to inquire over, unless in memory.
It is he, a painter of no words, though many images. Images that have never decayed in his mind, yet have found themselves onto the canvas, many a time. Worlds of confusion that have been shaped into a scenery of sense, formed about blankness, made as wash of curves or tumble of scraping lines.
Here, upon a day when all weights can press him, as though these winds passing as bereaving sighs are rising from a hollow so deep, he can touch his roots. He can seek the verdure in the underlying wood, of tastes so bitter, though captured as sweet. Here, when grieving winds can pass through him, from forests that hum with the song of the same pressing tension, he can turn towards the earth. He can speak to the soil, to make of one loving face, a famous expression to him.
One woman, without clarity to anyone else, but him, in its magnitude. For her face could alight any drying ember in his heart. It is a stare from hers that could guide the stars to unite in one conjoined discoloring, of that garish white. Of all stars, mingling in his heart, making him wonder to their wandering, about so lost in this field of resplendence.
She could, were she alive, relive countless moments for him, in timeless recollection of countless areas to be lost. She could, were she alive, sing to him to find himself, and align with the innumerable to become a one.
Modern Romanticism 