Hope is a well that springs eternally the warmth of possibility.
Though, for each individual possibility, there should be a guide so that further loss is not eventual, and never inevitable. A leader, that is, should reassure the sorrowful that there is greater light than such a hopeless one can ever consume, to fill whatever void has been created.
Beauty has a message:
Beauty asks for one of two things, “I must be protected,” or “I must be destroyed,” while the former is fulfillment, while the latter is mere temptation. A desecration of life, does a woman yearn to fulfill herself in this; and could she step upon a flower to feel fulfilled, or perhaps destroy the entire universe? Temptation is an infinite thing, and upon its path, the only thing that is represented is failure, the death of many things. As for each life, the only failure to conquer it, is the one that kills it.
We speak of all this, soon when Joseph enters his beloved’s abode, which to him, was his own previous abode.
And he finds his woman strangled by braided twine.
He finds what she remains as, the grace of tears, the notion granted from loss, and her hair! Her hair, such a latter detail from the previous fewest words, represent now the multitude of wires that engross the finality of humanity. To become the corpse, would be to become the machine. The puppet, to which we find it mattering to say should be controlled.
A lifeless thing, her named was Barbara, the love of Joseph, too stricken by his abandonment to edge herself further through life. Wires for hair, alike the machines that are beginning to conquer the industry of our setting in London.
All words now a part of a bruised puzzle becoming wholesome flesh, as Joseph kneels to the defeat of himself. He does not speak, though rather chooses to rub his face in the floor, below him.
His tears run as the dew that folds itself over leaves in the morning. Like the leaves that bend when the dew droplets make their travel to the pointed end, Joseph, as well, bends his form close to the floor, by the same maneuver. Angelic, it seems, that his torment has become, and more is guilt the persistence to reveal that torment; for that is because he is closer, himself, to dying, and relating himself to the hanged corpse, before him.
He feels a sense of shaping, as though his soul is calling him into the body, before him. The body that has a wind against its skin, so that it has begun to swing. It would not bleed, not even in description of that its blood has ceased to flow, though in that such a woman named Barbara would not show remorse.
She had done this deliberate act for proof, and only this, perhaps in hopes of a coming stranger, or even Joseph, to find her.
Every suicide is an act of proof.
Those who say to each of them determined to end all, the words that go by the ever-more deliberation of doubt, are received with words that say, “If only I had said otherwise.”
Would further love turn this tragedy mended? A failure that Joseph has engrossed himself upon, has allowed to show wound upon wound in himself; and now, he only shows kindness to the floor, because he kisses it. He wets it with his tears that blossom freely from his eyes. They would be like blood, were ever Joseph to hold pain as physical.
A wound of the heart, is always cured by love. It is a fixation, a focus, this emotion, this feeling, that is determined to heal. And yet, love may only heal the heart.