St. Apollonia

May 23, 2012
By Il-Jasper GOLD, Tifton, Georgia
Il-Jasper GOLD, Tifton, Georgia
10 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The gales are my highwaymens, my thieves, my pillagers. My listless breath, before long exhaled, is stolen; my individuality; stolen, my shackles, stolen.
The perpetually cerulean sky serves as my eternal blanket; the clouds, a conjuration of the lofty pillows for which I may dishevel my tired brow. My Avalon is close, I feel.
Life is but an elongated eclipse, a momentary shadow binding me to a body of dust and blood. The becalming has already engulfed me, my soul in its tranquil waters. Never will there be hollow ataraxia in my solemn psyche.
The meaningless questions, the meaningless answers, what do these yearnings and truths replicate to me? Do they, perhaps, fit together in one smoothly-woven journal of everything? Are we not, perhaps, a row of sea barnacles mindlessly clinging to our mercy seat? Perhaps, I should burn my stable bridges and set fire to my solid foundation, to relinquish myself from the daily woes and tolls, to be unearthed from my rocky mercy seat and bidden to join the bottomless tranquil sea, the endless threshold of oblivion.
Alas, all, perhaps, is not lost. Should I fling myself from this benevolent thumb and be swallowed by the mouth of the creator? Rather, should I fling this rambling journal, this safeguard to my sanity, this permanence to the arcane, to be dissolved and reformed in ordinance to the natural law?
Must I seek meaningless answers, dear creator? Will you speak not your quiet breaths, these whispers to lead me, your devoted black sheep? Must I strip the bottom from my boat and set sail only by the raging turbulent winds? Will I forever seek the purest form of solitude, to be hermit and philosopher without none to converse and none to answer? Will these sacrifices heed me to a heaven, an eternity that only the ancient poets have graced?
I ask, dear creator, are your biddings truthfully fulfilling my empty chalice? Can there not be a fountain of wonder, holding the world’s beauty? Are we too thirsty to see it? Must I consume the gorges, the ravines, and the sea in my avarice and leave the dregs of life to brew in order to drink from this sacred wine?

The author's comments:
Somewhere, along the moors and highways, I felt as if someone was at the break of a cliff, looking out towards sea. Their arms were outstretched, surrendering perhaps. Their hair and their clothes were gusted by the relentless wind. This may be the subject for one of my future paintings, probably on canvas.

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