romanticism
Five days out, on the Santa Lucia, escaping to the New World, a young Spanish woman, breathes her last breath, as the ocean sets her to rest. Leaving from Spain, on the violent sea, running away from it all, she is tossed into water, amidst the debris, sunken and swallowed forever. In a shipwreck like this, all are lost to the current, dragging them down with the ship, and as she watches the surface, the sunlight breaks through, shining rays across her eyes.
But the rays of light flash, and she is back once more, on the Spanish cliffs of her youth, where sun bursts through clouds, and shines down on her face, while she lay in the grass with her love. Although a child to the eyes, she is wiser than most, with a quiet passion for a boy, who though young outside, is no child at heart, weighed down by the price of his love.
�I�ll prove it right now, if you want me to,� he shouts as he jumps to his feet. And she watches him run, with a smile on her face, to the edge of the cliff in the sun. �I�ll jump off the edge,� he sternly whispers, to the wind and the sea and to her. �To prove my love,� he says to himself, �I would do anything.� And in recline on the grass, she admires her love, in the wind and the sun and the zeal, for romance to a woman is sacrifice, whether morbid or destined or real.
The sun in her eyes, flashes bright through the clouds, and now she has grown several years. Moonlight above on this cold dark night, sifts through the window, to her face and her tears. And the storm clouds outside, have settled in her heart, for she can hear downstairs, her father demand. He is speaking to the boy, now a young man, who has come to ask for her hand. But he tells the boy to leave, and not to return, he is unfit to marry this young woman, and his old voice is firm and cold as the night, for he is speaking to his manservant�s son. Since he was a boy, his family had served theirs, and tonight he would end this affair; for the penniless servant to marry an heiress would be a shame her father could not bear. So outside on the steps, the young lover stood, denied, as the rain began to fall. And looking down through the window, she saw his face turned up, his tears disguised by downpour.
Dashing outside to find her young man, she meets only rain and the moon through the clouds, so she heads to their spot in the grass on the cliff, where high above sea thunder pounds. And through the dark she calls out, saying, �Please, God, No!� to the rain and the rock and to him, for in a lighting flash, she can see her love, standing naked at the top of the hill. And she crawls through the mud, ascending to the peak, while he raises his hands to the sea, and between crashes in the sky, his eyes cast to the black, she hears him begin to speak:
�There�s beauty in the ugliness, and a certainty, that each embrace will end. The pain makes us stronger, and sacrifice, our only way to transcend.�
But as she reaches out to touch him, he drops slowly off the edge, spread Vitruvian as he falls. And like a promise broken, on the rocks below, she can�t bring herself to follow.
On her knees at the edge, there is a lightning flash, and she finds herself several years later, in a meadow near the city, under a tree in the fog, at the headstone of her dearest departed. At her feet lies a lily, the petals plucked off, for in her guilt, nothing has beauty. The nights are endless, and the days all drawn long, while she remains steadfast in her duty. She thinks herself weak, she couldn�t die for him, but she�ll never let him go. She thinks him far nobler, than her family�s nobility, to which she has never returned. So she visits his grave, every day in the fog, and gives him one dead flower. A lifeless lily, in exchange for her death, though she�s grown paler and weak and a coward.
But across the street, in the small Spanish town, a man looks on in wonder, and when she leaves that night, he gives her something, to break through the spell she is under. He is an artist from Florence, a traveling man, but this woman has caught his eye, and he�s drawn her each day, in the field, in the grey, and his feelings bleed through to the paper. The painting he has given her, stops the beat of her heart, for it�s her, in the meadow with the lilies, but in his eyes, she�s beautiful, the sky�s clearest day, and the flowers all blooming and radiant. Her skin is luminous, with paint like velvet, and a subtle smile on her face, while the headstone is wedding bells, in a future together, filled with joy and love in its place.
Each day she keeps coming, to the visit the grave, and he paints her as she looks in his eyes, and he gives her the paintings, his heart, and his life, but she feels her lover�s demise. She won�t betray him, he gave her his death, to prove he will always be near; she can�t give herself to anyone else, out of loyalty, romance, and fear. So her only escape is over the sea, to run to a new land out there, and the Santa Lucia will carry her troubles, to somewhere that she can bear.
Then in an instant, light flashes and she is drowning at sea, peering up through the wreckage and death, when the sun bursts through waves and shimmering down, reaches her last escaping breath. And as the calm settles in, at the end of her time, she thinks back on her life and her love, but it all was for nothing, the sadness and pain, it�s the same down here as above. What kind of world equates death with romance? Assigns honor to giving up? Why does pain mean depth? And love a sacrifice? Why is ugly a beauty worth worship? Suicide is sexy and funerals a marriage, taking the place of esteem, sad songs our anthem, getting pleasure from pain, carrying passion out to the extreme.
�To die for me is easy, why not live your life for me,� she thinks in the darkness below. And she thinks of her painter, who sees the beauty in life, but it all seems so long ago. He was caring and giving, but he gave happiness, with a love that was willing to live, and for her to run away was her giving up, something she could no longer forgive. So she kicked once or twice, and felt herself waking up, her body was coming alive, and she struggled and swam past sailors and boards, but she knew she would have to survive. Her thoughts on her painter, as she burst through the air, kept her going through each choking gasp, and days floating on wreckage, back to new love, onto his image and hope she will grasp.
Posted by heydomsar
2005-06-27
go back | random brainstorm | go forth
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