Bold: On the Length of Romance

-How long are you staying?

-As long as you need me, and keep making excuses that you do, because somewhere down the line, though I won’t admit it, I’ll need you too.

-And then?

-And then when you’re out of excuses, and I’m out of denial, we’ll both realize it’s time for me to leave, and it will only be because I am a nomad, who can never settle for any home, who has not found a home, partly because real estate has gone up so much these years, and I can only afford rent.

-So that’s it? No exceptions?

-There is one exception, rarely if ever applied. It’s that if you can walk with me, as I wander off to crazy destinations, go with me as my soul wrestles to find its place, if somehow by sheer coincidence or fate our souls share the same destination, and if you will not lose your breath at all the travelling, we can make ourselves into some sort of nomadic alliance.
You see, darling, I enjoy my loneliness so much, that I can only be with you if we can somehow become one person, but that’s too much to ask of anyone, even you.

A Forgotten Fleet

This text can be categorized as ‘inspired writing’, for the reason that it was written through one single burst of inspiration, with the┬ámy inability to understand┬ámy own writing up until completion.
Such forms were common among the Ancient Greeks, where the words were commonly attributed to oracles rather than poets.
My personal interpretation of this phenomenon is that of a mind which speaks freely to itself as the conscious entity eavesdrops on the inner conversation.
Not to keep you waiting, the text:

They left us here by the shore, a forgotten fleet. And slow, we knew the path, a path down the earth that led to the heavens.

We came here blinded, like men under siege, and when blinds were lifted, all was deceived.

There came us a fellow, he spoke like a toad, and yet my dear fellow, he spoke us the truth. There came with him woman, of greatest physique, of beauty none greater, and eyes none more deep.

And though she called me dreamer, we were all the same. In that little place, we called it an island, we did not know others, the others were we.

There once was a man, forgotten and lost, he found himself with us, and part of us lost.

And though we did know him, he knew not himself, and self did not know him, like souls that run steep.

Photo credit: h.koppdelaney / Foter.com / CC BY-ND

“The Thinker”, Rodin’s Masterpiece

When Auguste Rodin sculpted “The Thinker”, he broke the exalted false image of the Classical thinker of the age before and the Renaissance man of ages back that had so lingered into contemporary society.

He sculpted what I would argue is to this day the truest portrayal of a thinker ever to have emerged out of the hands of man.

The thinker is shown, a man seated on a rock in the wilderness, strong and muscular, yet, something in his face just cries out a torn and disheveled reality. His arm supports his head, a head that is worn with thought; his body closes in, fearful perhaps, of what lies beyond himself.

It is also perhaps not a coincidence that the thinker is nude, like a shamed street beggar, or even symbolic of an exposed charlatan: what is perhaps allegorical of a man who has lived a lie, veiled his unfortunate state in the face of society, hidden “the thinker”, tried to masquerade into society like just another average joe. Alas we know too well: that who we really are always catches up with us.

Is it by mere coincidence that Rodin had him seated on an olden rock in the wilderness? Or is he an outcast, banned beyond city walls, with only a desolate stone to accommodate a man that nature has cheated with a perverted gift: his mind that wanders, perhaps too far down the desolate path of the mind and soul?

What mystery does this sorry man hold? What in this gaze has enchanted the world? What man of the wilderness has dared to wander into the world of prestigious art salons, into the profanity of luxury Parisian cafes, only to find himself misunderstood by an even more pretentious society?

Will we ever understand him? Rather, does he understand himself?

It is a sorry truth, that all men who’ve met and shall meet the thinker shall turn their heads, unknowingly deceived. And though we’d argue differently, we’ve all been deceived.

We’ve all been deceived.

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