Passion
Days passed and the trees grew. They became a subtle hint of orange and gently bowed to the ground whenever the wind picked up. The moss on the rocks smelt of citrus and as I ran my fingers across it, it crumbled and curled away, joining the wind wherever it would flow. Deciding whether or not this was still a dream seemed like a pointless argument, the pain under my feet felt real, my throat was parched to the point that even whispering, regardless of no one being around, was an effort that left me out of breath and teary at the eyes.
As an artist, a painter, a writer, a poet and a soldier, the beauty around me was something that I could only ever hope for, a small cottage house surrounded by shades of green from the trees that split the light reflecting on the window, was replaced with nothing but memories of desert and haunting images that were self created. I was lost in these ruins. House keeping has been long since abandoned, the earth had become these pillars once more. Shattered doors on every turn and an ever closing horizon as I looked behind, to where I came from, to where I thought I came from, to nothing.
The longer I paced forward, the harder it was to turn back - but what would I even turn back for? Stones slowly began to form walls, cracked and weathered from the harshness of time and the doors became less frequent but more structured as if they were to actually house something of value behind them. The greens became grays, the air thickened with the smell of lust and longing. Portraits hung from the walls, crooked and forgotten. As I touched the pictures, the paint and pastel smudged creating blurred colours, almost befitting the scenery surrounding me. It was difficult to tell what the images were, the pictures had become a haze of darkened colours, telling a story, each more sorrowful then the last. There was a design in one of the frames, that particularly caught my eye, it was of a creature wandering through a vast darkness, scorched by the sun, blinded by sand and broken by time. As much as this thing had been through, it seemed content with its achievements and became somewhat, inspirational to me. So I decided to take it for myself.
Behind a door painted faded shades of pink and red, were cries. With my ear to the splintered wood, it became apparent that these were a mixture of pleasure and pain… I creaked the door open with a gentle push and proceeded inside. In this crimson, curtain draped room were women, cast in chains, burnt at the face and body, their blisters caressing with tattooed skin on each sensual movement and indulging in one another. I stood watching, mesmerized in a state for which I couldn’t explain how long. They ignored me, hissed at the fact I was there. I looked closer at the walls, with the curtains hanging by threads through the rusty hooks and noticed, they weren’t always crimson, but a dappled orange. There were several grandfather clocks hanging by chains from the ceiling ticking in a rhythmic sense to movement of the women. It wasn’t my place to stay and enjoy, I consciously kept from grinning, something was stirring inside me. Something that wanted to get out, I felt it in my stomach, it swirled and it lashed, paining me to stand. I clutched the portrait, hunched my back and began to stumble towards the nearest exit. The pendulum beating my ears with every vibrant swing. This was not a plus of love. No beauty existed here, just the pains of widowed women who longed for intimacy with another. I reached for the door, struggling to grasp the handle and open it, they laughed at my anguish and continued to pleasure one another with their torturous instruments but I managed to drag it open and fall through the doorway, slamming the door behind me and laying my head on the floor to catch my ever scarce breath.
This place was not meant for love.
