A woman’s heart is to me, the cherished stone. I walk from where I sat, to her face, and bury only myself in her tears. They come out from dark eyes as sweet to taste, for she is happy!
Happiness! So alien was the word, whenever I’d writhe in a torment back in my home. I’d spent the summer nights, in the heat, while a heart beat for the torment of an addiction. A substance, or so it was named, and I blew kisses in the direction of that pain, because I knew it was enhanced by love.
She bares her beauty resplendently. This woman of mine bares herself with a heart held outward, and I make myself famous in her touch. I feel the entire world look upon us, with so much envy. They can never know love. No; not them; certainly not the world I know to be dipped in selfishness and a desire for the self.
Our hands embrace; indeed, we have embraced. We have kissed, and we have embraced. We will love; yes, we will love. We will kiss, again, and we will find the moon to be radiant and the sun to be hot.
Above her brow is a strand of hair that I blow away from sight. I see an eyebrow that I, as well, offer a kiss. And I kiss it, and kiss it evenly in distance from her twinkling eye. So much love is in my heart, and my pain has been extinguished from its dancing and ephemeral flame. It was my life, that pain, and I have waved it a farewell.
My beauty, let us dance under stars and under the awing faces. We are the world made perfect. We are the moment made without distance. We are the ones for the other. We are beloved, and musical, and enchanted.
Beneath
the fire of the sun and in the warmth of their skin, two lovers unite in the
holler and jeer of a morning’s session of passion. There is, imagined in this
scene, a pair that dances on their own toes above the fruit that releases the
nectar that is the sin of lust. One speaks of beauty, the other speaks of
despair. Yet, the comfort that surrounds the aura to the dream is the enemy to
love. One dream and one blaze cover a pair so embedded in simplicity.
Bastian
acts as the man with an entire field below him in its radiance from the
overhead sunlight, while she gleams with as much luster as the sun, to give
Bastian the radiance that all know in holiness. Bastian is God to an angel
covered in her own cotton garments.
He
is as merciful as the holiest of saints, though tears into her the punishment
that fits the description of any atrocious fiend. His face is shown with the
emanations of regret. More than once, she questions why he is weeping, but not
once does he offer an answer. He gleams in the aroma of love-making; it is
softness to the angel’s defeat. A few drops from his face mingle in with the
drops of his body, but his face is soaked in sadness. His temples are soaked in
passion. His mind is drowned in sorrow.
In
God’s realm, he has become the doer of good to an angel that envelops herself
in simplicity. Her shoulders show loveliness through their roundness and their
connection to a splendid stem of a neck! Her face is captured by the kisses
given to her from the man above, and what a face it is! Bastian and his lips
trace the skin of her breast, draining its plumpness. He allows himself to
linger on her scent.
The
scent of a beast lures; that is the Hunter which Bastian has become. It takes
God and a Hunter to create a child in the womb of an angel. He takes in her
softness in every inescapable delight. Every one of her tremors results in the
creation of an empire devoted to wings and gold.
Oh, love; without the work required, would make it mere dust.
Beauty is the flesh, the molded clay, and the truth that is
continually spun into a different shape. Whoever is the political leader of the
day, becomes society’s sculptor, and the sculptor of every piece of flesh.
A neck must turn a head upwards.
A face must see a God, when looking upwards in that direction
towards a light.
Oh, science; it holds fields, and only fields, of such named studies,
where the researchers will only face their eyes upon the ground. When one peers
ahead, one sees the future. When one peers at their feet, they do feel
miserable by seeing the past. History is not merely recorded, but also dug up,
explored and discovered.
Love has two hands, and they both tremble in the fear and worries
of a past.
A man now explores a woman, in what we see before us. A man of ragged
appearance, with death on the edges to his fingertips; he explores with a
shovel; no, not a shovel, but a dagger that is shaped smallest it could ever be,
in possibility. No one had shaped its smallness but the frail mind of this
withered man. He is a rapist. His mind is terrible, while his instincts are
ever-so worse the cause for destruction. Death is his music; and where he makes
marks, they are not stayed with the feet upon a woman’s ground.
He moves as the boat that rocks atop the waves.
He runs his face over her fearful eyes and runs his mouth over her
quivering lips.
He moves his hands at her hips, to turn such round curves into
jagged edges, so they no longer appear as the Earth with its same curvature.
Love; and why do we speak of love, through such a scene?
It is due to one detail.
Fragments.
A woman raped, is the woman removed of her modesty, of her warmth,
and one can guess she’d feel the same “loss” as when she is removed of love. A
lover, that is, to be removed from her life, makes the woman unprotected.
And what had been her protector, this woman named Lucia who now
lays on her back in some dusty back-alley, besides what is now that same word?
Fragments. Torn flesh, is the ragged flesh, is the bleeding wound, the same
wound from everything lost. Of flesh, of virginity, of any mark that touches something
made to be warm, from protection. Clothing would protect from the cold. An
embrace would protect from the coldness of loneliness.
She has encumbered her mind with the sadness of regret. What of her memory? It is drowned in a scathing of her liquid mind; a woman of vanity that conflicts with a desire for a future. Her independence is doomed to meet the past; what of her memory? The memory she possesses, Valarie, as is her name, sees shadows.
Shadows that creep and shadows that are so much the silhouette. She desires to see the future, away from a husband, though is seeing the past. She pulls humanity backwards. Disparity is her surname. Valerie Disparity. Beautiful woman, is she, and a woman of the north. She has accumulated nothing upon the south. Her loin is still but matted with the flesh of the hymen. Domination has not been upon her. It is this way, while seduction still drools from herself.
Many men turn their eyes, distracted by something so natural for a man to be a distraction. Away from the sufferings of poverty, a man throws his glance in Valerie’s direction. He will grope, as the pauper, to reach for an apple or a peach, because morality is not of him.
Valerie’s face, so brimming with red, welled up upon cheeks that run the red to her collarbones. The red ceases upon that spot, and we notice her lips, as well with crimson from an applied cosmetic. Her face, and then her eyes are too, noticed, with blue irises, creating a scenery of one sky above and two places to look. Withdraw from it, and you will lean towards Hell, towards the poverty where a life crawls on knees and only the knees.
Her future, dreamed to be a paradise of an envisioned eternity of escapism. There is nothing that Valerie delights more in, besides the urge to be away. From what, does one ask? What to escape from, and to what future of what paradise of escapism? A future so uncertain is there for her, and seemingly throws light upon her face, and such hued cheeks turn gray as dust. She feels fear.
A future full of her independence, and yet, the dumbest of men could comprehend that a woman’s focus is her past, her memories; and all of her mind entwined as a reminder to what was good. What was once good, that is, is her prime focus. The first kiss. The first dance. The first romance. And then, the first bedding, with a man of her choosing.
The dumb man cannot ever see the past of a woman, unless he ask for its reminiscent words departed from her parted mouth.
The reminder in what a woman says is her correction to a past, is the past as tainted, and she throws the past forward; and in doing this, the past is recreated in men. A man’s mistakes is recreated; and of curiosity directed solely as a woman’s instinct, there is life continually either preserved or destroyed. What has it for a woman to destroy life, to act as men, to be as brutal and stupid, as men? Carefulness would be of a woman’s regime, were curiosity not to be among her instincts.
Curiosity creates envy. Envy creates lust. Lust creates pride, even should an accomplishment not be made. Pride soon becomes as loose as happiness, as contentment, until no accomplishment is made; and then, among bloodied, brutal people that we are, we find comfort only in blood, in conflict, in life.
Oh, Valerie; with crimson upon shades of crimson. There is lightness in your breath, and speechlessness in your gaze. There is quality in your bosom, and life in your stillness when one marvels upon you even dancing. Love, we will do; though, the only gift we will have is humble gratitude.
Her
hands tremble as she stumbles over a flurry of inquiries, “Was our touch
worthy? Was what I offered enough to relieve you and provide the elixir you
were seeking, or was it merely fodder for another one of your papers? Am I the
inspiration for your work, like a muse is to an artist, or am I truly your
beloved? What am I to you?”
Evidently,
these are questions that breathe loathing upon Bastian, so he somewhat recoils
from its devastative emanation. He looks at her, attempting to understand the
many fractures of her soul and their alignment with each other, as if to
witness the vividness of her torment in its entirety.
She
has been the onlooker of his misery! She has also been the subject of his
studies. In being his subject, she has encompassed the innocence of a young
girl, and that innocence has transformed into something far more hideous.
Ignorance. A truth that is not often voiced. Ignorance in such a case is not
ever innocence. As innocence as a form of being safe is always denial to the
dangers around the endangered. Ignorance is replaced by knowledge, as Anita had
offered herself up to Bastian’s altar, as a virgin.
Anita
may as well have been raped.
Encouraged,
but also forced to sacrifice her purity for the sake of what she thought to be
true love. A wholehearted intent, but the penetration that was involved was
likened to being knifed by a dagger. Blood was involved. An object of hardness
was involved. A knife of steel. A knife of rubber. Only the former has the
intended effect.
She
was the demon for his studies, the little playmate for the paper, written with
a pen that was akin to the god between his legs. White paper like the purity
that is now erased, and the colors that are now drawn on Anita’s countenance
are no longer childish.
What
had been more important to Bastian, in what he wished to conquer. It is a
confusion that emanates the fumes of madness. A sinister notion of what makes
soldiers become longing for the bed at home.
There is much to adore of a form so raw with flesh. She shows bravery by walking to a place where she may admire her form.
As I peer through this window to see her, I may watch the breasts move upwards, as she steers such a form. I may see her cheeks with redness attached, and a chin where sweat has loomed to it. Alike to a cliff where a waterfall would drain away its contents into a gorge, this is it. She does not falter. No; and she cannot falter.
I am in love with mere beauty?
Although, I see my own reflection as a deposit of soil against this filthy frame, and a window becomes a mirror. At once, what I notice is beheld before me as a face of hideousness!
A man of an atrocious appearance. So much befuddled with the wetness from grime, from endless hours in vain toil. What would I achieve in that virtuous undertaking of a task, any task, to suit a moment’s reprieve? A moment in tired rest? Underneath sheets that are made from satin or linen, from a hotel with such fabric not belonging to me?
But, I am here to now see a woman in admiration to an astonishing figure, am I not? I am not here to berate myself. I am only here to see that which strikes out upon my face as a woman of no scolding to what she notices.
Two breasts like two pears, evenly displaced from the other, and perky enough to create that tip, alike to the pear’s shape. Of famous eyes that glimmer among the room’s arid temperature, and arms that do the same. Of those same eyes that are buried in the deepest shade of brown. And those same arms, that sway widely after she’s expressed admiration before this mirror in her room.
Oh, how I wish I could be that mirror!
How I wish I could understand that mirror, as well, and how it came to be in that corner, of where it stands.
Beautiful as she may be, she is only a figure, and I as well, see my face, once again; as it stares back at me, I can feel such a sting. A loathing, a pressing, and a great hatred that steams from somewhere fowl.
I know it.
In admiration of a figure, I admire the slave. The form. The worker. I would admire them, and still think highly of their efforts.
Who had sculpted her, I now ask?
Who had made the curves, that relate so much to the Earth, and its same curvature? Who has made the eyes with so much color alike the deepest shade of the bark upon an oak, or the deadened Autumn leaves?
Had I mentioned her hair, where female vices spring truest?
To make it alike to baldness would be to spread contempt upon both the beauty and travesty of a heart.
Had I mentioned the greatest detail, being the button to her abdomen, alike to the disused outlet in the wall of the Victorian home; or especially alike to either of this woman’s ears, that hearken to the neighboring parties, ones that are creating tunes upon gramophones?
For I say this is important, because in viewing it, I see of this woman, the vastest of sympathy. To breed. To offer. To allow.
Empathy is the emotion of the personal. The snow and its cold are where people are buried. Beneath its flakes, there is the death of where people sleep. We have noticed of the towns and cities that are spread across the earth, that sympathy is now the emotion used for when one deserves to be equal. In death, we are equal. In love, we are equal.
Like a flower that
failed to bloom, and remained as a bud, there is a certain woman with the name,
Katharina, only about as beautiful as the black orchid, grown in Asia. She
prowls these streets in France, in the city of Reims, cradling a child of no
name.
In love, we are
equal. For God, we are equal. A scientist will dig for truth, because a
scientist has no choice but to see their own feet. They refuse to be blinded by
God. It is because they believe God holds no truth.
The lack of a
reality makes either denial or yearning.
Truth is the flesh, separated from God, or love, so that what is noticed is only the body. As Adam and Eve, who were once nude, before betraying God, their bodies were risen from the soil, and from death, or the soil, came the life that we behold for beauty. Beauty, which is the truth or the flesh, made shocking, when exposed. Katharina is a woman of no love.
“Little to no love…”
Without love, she
cares little for what occurs about her. That which surrounds her holds no
interest to her wandering stare. She is in love with no purpose for love,
besides the cradled infant in her arms. An infant of no name, and certainly no
surname.
There are flakes
that descend and fall to land upon her nose and cheeks. They lay there against
the warm skin, to then melt and blend themselves in with the blackened tears
that wash from Katharina’s eyes.
She is surrounded
by the stares of the people of Reims.
She is surrounded
by their eyes.
Glares that have
witnessed her deformed appearance. An appearance that is stricken by grief. A
loss to which has touched her heart and has tainted the ruby orb into black
coal. Metaphorically, this would mean that there is something she flees from;
and as a woman will leap from one thing to the next, she will soon return to
the center.
Outside of a
woman’s home, there is the world. It is because a woman’s emotions, as
important as they are to her, branch throughout the world as temptation.
Femininity and temptation make business thrive. Temptation creates the fuel of
lust to make beauty an alterable thing. A changeable thing, because love cannot
ever be used. The limitations in love become an awareness to any human, when it
is simply stripped away.
The home of a
woman is the heart, itself. The love; and the streets away from it, are the
veins. Are we as one body? As a species, we are as one body, and the roads that
led out of Eden, were endless.
God has no wife,
because He has no home, besides Heaven. For a man will make his home, a woman’s
heart. God would have to make his home, as everyone’s heart.
Temptation is for
flesh. Love raises flesh. After love is abandoned, there is flesh exposed to
the cold. Warmth no longer makes flesh warm. A shelter, a home, a shield, or an
encasement, makes the flesh warm, through love. Modesty is the love. Beauty is
the flesh. When love is gone, there is flesh exposed; when flesh is torn
through, the human has died.
Katharina’s heart
is the cold stone withdrawn from the evermore cold river and held close to her
face so that she may examine its appearance. If winds run against it, it would
not become colder.
Love is the
emotion of modesty.
Love does not show
itself, so therefore, God would not show Himself.
To the woman, and
her cravings or yearnings, would a man show himself, as God is asked to show
Himself? A craving, a saving, and a woman who pleas to the Lord above. In
turning away, woman is betrayed by God, or a man, and beauty is revealed.
A woman’s pride,
or even the downfall of any love that centered herself, comes by way of
following those veins throughout a city.
She walks, Katharina, down an endless road, because she has nowhere to turn, and no time to cease her pacing.
“A vein is as any other…”
Her face holds the
appearance of possession.
Possessed by the
limitations in love. She has exposed her warm flesh, no longer warm to the
shelter of a home, and open before the descending flakes of snow. Like a canvas
drawn with a nude for reveal, shock and controversy are there for viewers.
She walks with the
infant enclosed in her cradling arms.
Her only love is
the world.
The roads are
endless.
She follows them
like the veins from her heart. When a woman moves her arm, she moves a vein.
When a woman moves her leg, she moves a vein. When a woman desires freedom, she
doesn’t desire love.
Love freezes,
encases, and imprisons a woman in a home. For a man, love traps him to the
study and examination of a woman. She may see what she sees, but he cannot see
anything. To pierce his eyes, would be simple. To pierce her eyes, would take
raw masculinity.
What is Katharina?
She is a woman who
wanders. The road she wanders is as any other vein, as the sympathy to which is
offered upon a passerby. A road and its paupers are met by the sympathetic
Saint.
Katharina offers a
degree of sympathy to a pauper who passes her. Though, as he passes on the
endless road, the sympathy acts as the road. No intimacy is shared between
them. The road is as any other vein. The sympathy for the pauper treats the
pauper as any other pauper.
What would hurt
through empathy?
Everything would
hurt.
And the pain would
oftentimes be mistaken for pleasure.
The man and his broken promise to a woman; this is Gustave, near the side of an imagined phantom who resembles Katharina. His woe is grand and is spectacular when he imagines such a phantom and looks upon it with the most frenzied face of evermore-frenzied grief.
Pain does bloom in him by that vision, and during this moment when he’s viewing Devorah, he can see Katharina as a physical presence.
He raised her for seven years, so it should be safe to assume that Gustave has felt this dread crawling upon him, for that length of time. His despicable and worn form, has made living only tolerable. Such a life cannot guarantee happiness, though only the drudgery of each day losing its touch with emotion. Without the human side to a human, they will die, or perhaps wish they were below the earth.
Such a wish would be guaranteed, and so there is nothing else that could be able to rewrite past moments that have wiped a smile on the face of one so burdened by their trauma, as love. Love is the cure that creates strength. Does one with an illness become cured, from love? No. For love is merely the thing that lengthens the inevitable. As love makes a human both vulnerable and strengthened, it would make one realize that as one grows old, they are bound to vanish.
Though, the love does not vanish. A feeling as eternal as that, as bonded as that, and torturous when it is met upon with negligence, can only create either utter Heaven or utter Hell within the heart. Beautiful and bountiful love, as it soars in areas too high to see when upon physical feet, are not at all out of reach when a body is dead, and ashes glide with the air.
The
untimely fault of a man and his singular pride: creation, and the sin that had
occurred to make it possible. Does a man act in God’s own image, and if so,
then is God a sinner? We love the sinner, so in such a case, we also love God.
Death is opposite to life. Death is opposite to love. Both life and love are connected; and should one say otherwise, to say that one could merely mention that one “loves the sight of death”, it should be automatically assumed that such a person is homicidal. Would they love the sight of their dying mother; their dying children; or any dying loved one?
Is such a person the most selfish breed to exist? We ask this, because we have just barely described a certain man, named Gustave, whose torment is lasting. He yearns for Katharina, though has never made a move for their next reunion. He yearns to see her, as such can be noticed in his eyes.
The
torment, that is; and such torment bleeds onto his cheeks, from tears that have
swollen from a deep well. They rise, and they flow outward, and flow such
cheeks with those tears, like dew that drops off a petal.
He
notices Devorah, perhaps given the money needed for a vocation like to be a performer;
though, for what purpose? Was it merely a choice for escapism? When a man runs
from danger, he’d be deemed a coward. Is this the right accusation? It should
be, and it should be enforced among the “laws of society” that a man would not
be a man, if he could not keep a promise. To say to a woman, “I will protect
you with all my might,” and through that love, his strength become infinite.
Such
tears, and such wispy cheeks, that flows the rivers from his eyes; there is
that torment, that woe, and searing grief, of a loss that is not beknown to be
a loss!
In
this lonely moment, he looks to where the stairs reside, and ascends them.
He
ascends them, to then turn at the hallway to where Devorah slumbers.
It
is morning, and Devorah is sleeping into the late morning where noon
approaches. She is noticed by him. She is noticed to have a handsome
appearance, with her developing form, and still-childish face. A smile is kept
below her nose and above her rounded chin, neatly placed as though some artist
found it fitting to swipe two strokes of pink across such pallid skin. Lovely,
in her visage, and youthful, in her body.
