It is somewhat often that a man will find himself to be nestled near to silence, as if his arms were wrapped about the form of a woman. Her comfort is brought into that solace, that silence, because she seemingly has nothing to fear. What of Anton?
He raises himself, to form steps with the carpet beneath his feet. It is worth noting that a smile has etched itself into his features, for but a moment, before departing into the musky air of this bedroom.
That was a smile holding words of its own, one that said, “I am nearing a time to talk. To talk to a one I trust.”
Upon his knees, down to mingle with the curse that is his pain, down to sing his words out from his throat, he hurls himself from silence into a time to speak. Even if to God, the answer-less being, it is a time for Anton to express deep woes and heartache.
Answer-less, though not without impracticality by those answers we are not used to. That is, every emotion that branched from the seed of love, are things without answer. We expect answers from God, though to what end are we able to realize that some things cannot be answered, in the way we want them to?
Anton comprehends, down upon his knees, nothing of God.
To Him, it is a flurry of voices that spew from Anton’s lips, towards a kingdom he’s never seen, though is hopeful does exist.
Anton speaks syllables only deserving trust by something of a being without form. God, without form, would not crave, nor use prayers for knowledge. For is not a human’s craving to know, simply craving? It is, because we can hoard knowledge as easily as we hoard the currency a pauper is starved of. A human may offer bread, the practical means of a pauper’s answer to his or her hunger, though in what shape, to what form, to what design, does God offer bread to the loner without love?
To what Anton says, streaming through from his lips in the emotions of a river, coming from his eyes in the form of a river, leaking from his mind in the memories that travel like rivers, “I am here to loathe what I am.”
They are words expressed, on evidence, from deep grief. They came through as but a whisper, telling some kind of tale that could resonate with a number of people.
Love is all-powerful, though it is fear that is all-consuming.
Why do we speak so much on love, despite knowing little of Anton? Would it be because of the formless being he speaks to, upon his knees, with hands clasped before his eyes, representing love? Love comes in no form, for we do not love the form, though do respect the form. We love the face, the recognition of what we comprehend, and does not confuse us. For would a mother be confused at the sight of her child? It is never the case.
Love wraps itself around the hungry loner’s shoulders, though not to feed their bellies. To imagine the hospice, full of patients ill with disease, what would be their greatest suffering?
Is loneliness not the greatest suffering of all men and women? We want what we want, though sometimes deign ourselves to want what we find impossible to have. Though, to stare in the eyes of the one we say helps us, would it be done without love?
Anton speaks again, “I am guilty of only one thing: that I wasn’t there when she slept.”
Not there when she slept? Still too vague, for then he says, “I was near to beauty when it slept, though when I came closer, she turned to mist. God, to what realm am I supposed to meet something that vanished? My love breathed her last into the air, for her to then welcome herself through the open window, and never once more, speak. Silence is what encompassed me, on that day. Now, silence is all I adopt, all I realize to be something for me, never again to respond to the wind’s call, nor the ocean’s lapping.”
He ends with, “If I can see something that I have missed, then may I be blind too.”
All minds begin with a light, until shadows are cast from that light. All beginnings are formed within a halo, the cupid, like Christ shouted to being the Alpha, though was also directing towards the Omega. Is it that we are speechless to what we may follow to the end, where we are blind while reaching the final moment? Anton realizes his own light is still the current, for he has begun at square one, after his experience in loss.
For he says, “She, the one to give me a light upon my trail, had nothing to do with the ending of my heart on its long road. Yet, I feel guilt, as I feel at fault for my negligence. My negligence, to do with how I did not speak much to her. My guilt is more to do with how I could not speak directly to her dying form, washed as it was in the white of a phantom. For that is what she became, as I know it to be.”
A life, began at a light. A love, ended at the final stop for a road, lacking light. No light at the end of the tunnel, nor at the end of their journey. Anton is merely the one to have waved a farewell to a departed beloved, before beginning a new light, with his mouth wrapped in silence.
Love is the only certainty the imperfect human cherishes, leaving to themselves the fear that decides for them the way to protect what may be lost. We are, when in love, heroic. We are splendid heroes, deserving though only what deemed worth protecting.
Anton, gilded in gold, silver in his tears, and bronze for his flesh, is a man whose heroism escaped him, along with the object to protect.
A beloved, bent low to for an oncoming vow, to keep on protecting, until the death of that love, by the death of one stopped heart. Love leaves all opened gaps to be closed, by the arms of the beloved coming to close them.
What wounds does Anton now suffer, in how no one, besides him, besides perhaps the vision of God, can come to offer aid? No new love is what Anton currently wants. His pain, written over his face in smears, is not to be healed in an instant. For the cracked heart to the full heart, will be eternally dependent on that which is lacking.
He says, “Oh, God. I am a man without much sin, though with many regrets. I regret I would not listen to her, for my ears were not good enough, so much as they were indeed able. My love bleeds for me somewhere out there, within your kingdom, as I am here, bleeding out to her.”
He ends with saying, “I am still too much the one who wallows in his own grief, forever disarranged among the spilled flowers from their vases. That is because I am deeply embedded in seeded memories, that won’t sprout unless I nurture them with my tears. Oh, God. Forgive me for whatever you can, in whatever you in your formless self have grasped of my words.”
He moves, from the praying chair, to a bench that rises from the floor about a foot and a half, and has been placed before a mahogany wall.
It is to be said, now, that Anton Action is a dweller in a city of Germany. Berlin, as it is, as he has remained there his entire feeble existence.
Anton has moved, as we have said, from his realm in prayer, from his speech in prayer, to be rested atop a bench that we have said is apart from a mahogany wall. Though, it is apart from his own bed, where sheets are nestled, and a quilt is atop those sheets in somewhat disarrangement. It could be assumed that this, too, is a semblance of what Anton remembers of a loss. Of a beloved, to whom he desires to be remembered in every direction. While he has lost sight of her, he has not lost the fondness of her remembrance.
Who was this woman? Pray tell, she certainly must have held the utmost importance to Anton, for we can see of his eyes, during this moment, that tears have been draining. Draining, and falling over his cheeks, to his mouth, to his chin, for he has not deigned himself to swipe them away.
Modern Romanticism 