Like passing ships in the night, the words implied
on canvas before her untangled themselves. A few woven fibres – and nothing
more; holding fictional victims frozen in time, embracing eternity. And she
felt their pain. Uncertain lovers in the snow. The gentle hum of voices behind
her emphasised the silence of desire; bodies, falling like snowflakes,
dissolving in the sun. The river waters rise, life turns into a tragedy. There
is no escape. And it seemed more like a parable than painting; and the closer
she went, the less it seemed. Emotion carried with the rushing water, torn
amongst the weeds and smashed on rocks
in a self consuming-passion.
The rain, the tears of lovers weeping for their
death. Still, silent bodies with all the life and solitude of statues, infused
with feign existence. No words, no names, leaving only the perfection of
silence. Two halves becoming whole for one moment of life, which glimpsed at
eternity. Tangled threads, enshrouded in a mystical anonymity, an emptiness
whose only void is love; possessing a stronger than death desire.
And all she saw were springtime kisses in the rain,
while church bells played upon a lonely sun-filled sky. Naked children in
summer. There was no longer the necessity to talk, to obstruct their care. How
could material capture the agony and ecstasy that existed beyond the seventh
veil. Bodies drifting like autumn leaves, twisting and turning as servants to
the wind. It was in their passion that she found the ultimate loneliness, a
solitary world of feelings. Their togetherness only accentuated mankind’s
desolate existence. Yet it partook, she felt, of eternity. As the weeds grew
around their hearts, welding them into an eternal embrace, within an arms reach
of her they lay; the other side of midnight, silenced by gunfire, woken by
dawn. And while she sank, the other ships sailed on.
