Vermilion & the Enigma of Other Colours *rev

Synopsis: An eccentric and highly talented artist tells an emotional and euphoric story centering around a beautiful woman whom he details to be the most exhilarating and perfect form of a woman; he and the woman form apeculiar love with one another that lasts through a journey together thatdeteriorates in its end. The artist awakens to dismay in realising that the woman was nothing more than a dream, but despite this awakening, he is still in-love with her which turns his world upside down in a crescendo of depression and wanting; he devotes his life to her image in the use of opium and psychedelics - wasting his life in the pursuit of making her real to him. Nihil. Embroided by the clustered haze of passion's liturgical blood which my nocturnal being abides with avid exuberance, I found in ambulation my feet on a path of nostalgic reveries where my mind was left bemused and my heart left dead: I. In the miasma of an impalpable mind that sets my state I observe the absence of colour in yin's black and yang's white where the vehemence of vermilion takes their grandeur and feeds my avid dependence in the rights of colour; colour being all that typifies the milieu of my current being that had painted my trifling past of failed potentialities, now to imminently paint the possibilities to come - - these colours subconsciously paint love for my red heart in the bitter world's cold frost of sorrow and contempt that deprives the hope of warmth, but it was that I found such puissant beauty in yin's minuscule white, but I know not its name, only how she appeared: her face - smoothly crafted like a fragile porcelain doll, her brown hair - elegant and smooth with a virtuous scent, her brown eyes - overwhelming with inept innocence. II. Every bliss is invoked to one who may hear her voice, a pluperfect sound of flawless notes to which I recall an exhilarating portrait of hypnotic colours spilling past the achromatic chains to the canvas of my mind that now furnishes only the sting of rememberance while the winds whisper familiarity of her name(s) which recollection haunts me with only her colours, but I still shield her thought, a masterpiece of art. III. Had the illusion of love richened the bitter taste of life to which both heaven and earth have laid their hands? For rough years offered the abundance of poisoned fruit growing the cruelty of thorns that swallowed smoothness and created the heads of Cupid's deceitful arrows which drew me to the lamentations of her burdensome fate; a harlot of an imprisoned spirit, she filled my heart so as my soul dripped with the freedom of utopia, but again in contempt my soul is raveled in knots that so freshly my exhale became a voice yelling her name so gently from the trembles of my stagnant tongue that I failed to recognize what it was that I had said; a mental palisade of flames suppress an oratorical declaration - such is the enigma of spellbound notes. IV. This obsession had become my fixated inclination when my eyes met the overwhelming innocence of her eyes that wept down the charm of her visage, but these memories exist now as an opium dream, depriving me of nutrients and addicting my soul to the surreal thought of her which becomes my life that stretches my torment over all other thoughts; perhaps it is her memory that shreds my words, or had a deceiving foul touch taken my lifefrom where both heaven and earth had laid their hands? For her vehement colours manifest and drape the canvas of my mind which peels the paint of my sanity; it is her porcelain like face in a pool of shapeless liquid formed by its ineffable content swelling my knees to the floor with shattering porcelain that greets old wounds in my canvas of memories that I now stand naked in, and to where I descend into a crescendo of madness forming without pattern in a series of achromatic cells. V. I lay down with the emptiness that is my life and stand with the emptiness that eats me alive drawing me back to her thought, crawling backward, consuming my days and never learning to live life; for I question - is this emptiness part of being human? The masterpiece escaping the artist in the distance burns my logic in a break of pain where there is truth broken in the language of love and romance that sings beautiful songs of horrible things, but it was to my own perception I bended and molded this love to my own liking that reality begins to change, an edited being of human life where I will be happy, where I will be empty, where my thoughts aren't hers; I now live without reason in the dissonance of my dreams, naked, holding my heart in my hands as I taste of it; eating it for it is bitter, and it is my red heart.