He was a man who had lived right on the thin border between callous fantasy and a pessimistic present tense. None expected him to survive a serious relationship. For he was one of those types capable of burning soul-wood for the sake of completeness and ethical accuracy. But fall hard he did. He fell so hard that the ground beneath him recoiled and rippled in vicarious orgasms. It took him 18 years to find his muse, covered in flesh and made of blood and matter. But what a find it was! In times of yore the heavens would have opened up and showered on them the bright yellow petals of immortal adoration.
What about her? She was a being caught in the cross hairs of a painter’s tunnel vision. Life to her was like the backside of a billboard, wooden frames and structural adjustments propping up the glass dreams of a puerile hope. Her’s was a never-ending quest for perfect love. And she too fell hard, immersing herself in immunity’s other side, a four-letter misnomer for mood’s lesser child.
It was more than the end of a mutual struggle. It was the union of two organic personalities, one fitting into the imperfections of another. From that point there was only one direction to go. It was an inevitable invitation for the alter ego of life to come center stage, a silent symphony played by mortality’s old nemesis. How can flawed perfection exist in a world of hypocritical honesty? How can the crystals of pure emotion shine in the dull monochrome of human envy? How can a mythical union survive the impure fires of a corrosive construction called society?
Don’t think of it as a loss. Death is not an ethical excuse to claim final victory. No, they won by the very finality of their act. They won simply because they showed the union of chest and breast, control and cancer, action and reaction, tension and attention, silence and insolence, and solitude and attitude can occur within a periodic span of 1440 minutes.