In all my years and I have never seen a woman
as fair as she, and how would I describe such a woman? Shall I use the words of
Shakespeare and compare thee to a summer’s day, or shall I compare thee to the
flower that grows beneath the willow tree.
In many ways, such a woman would bring unsteadiness to the knees of any man that lay his eyes upon such beauty, and yet I feel nothing. Not one ounce of weakness has overcome my knees or shaken my heart for I, a soul once deepened with love and joy, have seen many women as blessed as she with such wondrous and smouldering looks as they. In turn, these women use their looks as ammunition against even the strongest of men. I have seen, heard, felt and been a victim of such a siren, for that is all she will ever be, a mythical beauty.
You may be asking, whom is this lowly soul who speaks with such cynicism and generalisation? Well, my friend, the name of Percival Coltrane is one that I was branded with as a child, and the term realism is my preferred description of my opinions.
My story is a short one, a one of darkness overcoming the light, a story of sights and sounds that slowly eat away at that white light inside every soul, eventually ridding us of our goodness and sanity. My story is not one to forget, however hard you try, so try your worst and best at once and watch as your white light fades.
As a boy, my mother was a shining beacon of goodness and love, she warmed the hearts of every soul she touched and she held my father's heart with softened hands. My mother was a painter; she could stand in front of a canvas for a day and create the most inspiring art you would ever see, a gift she shared only with my father and I. She never swore, nor did she curse or lie or shout or drink, she took each day as a blessing and never once doubted her faith in the Lord, or her faith in me.
An evening in April, the 17th, created a darkness that caused the light that once shone bright inside my soul to flicker ever so slightly and then begin to fade. A nightmare had awoken me in the dead of the night, I had the habit of running to my parents bedroom if a bad dream had woken me from my sleep, so that my mother would hold me tight and sing me into a dream. But this night, one that is the most vivid nightmare that I have ever experienced, a stranger stood above my mother as she lay asleep in bed. He stared at me through piercing green eyes as he leant over towards my mother and rolled her body to face me, showing me her pained eyes and her cheeks sodden with tears as she struggled to say five small words.
"You were my greatest masterpiece"
Over the years I have begun to realise that, even as that light inside of me fades, my memories never do. The memory of my mother, without hope or faith, has been branded into my mind with hot iron that will never fade. She was taken from me at the age of eight by a stranger with a gun; he stole her soul and with it went her warmth, hope and faith in everything, including her faith in me.
I was too young to understand my father's loneliness, and so when his second marriage was announced I felt utterly betrayed that my father could possibly entertain the thought of replacing my mother with any other woman. Not to say that my step-mother was akin to any fairytale step-hag. To describe this woman as hideous or even slightly so would be a bitter lie. She showed an elegance that is rare to find, as well as an alluring, well-defined structure to her face that only added to her smouldering beauty. Unfortunately, a consequence of this beauty was a great weight of insufferable cruelty that entangled itself around what was the empty vessel of her heart. After three years of barely being able to tolerate standing in the proximity of this ghastly woman, I lost my only remaining family - my father - who was unable to live with the suffering that this bewitching femme fatale had put upon him. He stood at the edge of the roof and looked to the heavens to find my dear sweet mother every night for hours, then days, then months, and eventually he tried to fly.
That was the night I ran away, ran through the fields and through the towering trees until my legs could carry me no longer. I eventually collapsed from exhaustion and slowly dragged myself along the floor to lie underneath a large oak tree in the centre of a field, cold and alone. I remember wrapping myself every inch of fabric that I had managed to steal from my home, desperate to stay warm until morning. Needless to say, my step-mother never found me, but then again, I doubt she even tried. Her rouged lips and condemning eyes never fail to haunt my dreams, placing distrust in my mind of any woman with such beauty. For beauty shows only the masking of a woman who holds the deepest and most relentless hatred for anything that contains inner beauty, as this type of spiritual allure is the only beauty that can truly steal the hearts of a nation.
I look to the woman before me, blessed with only a perfect shell, as she represents a lowly horse conch creature; Beautiful and fascinating for every being that comes across its fantastic shell, until the shell is removed and all that is left is a repulsive, hideous creature. You see, I am no perfectionist, nor am I misogynistic, pessimistic, or even cynical. I simply see things as they are, this is why I believe myself to be a realist, and realistically I see women, such as the one in front of me, as a symbol of all that has caused my weightless young soul to become my lead boots, my punctured life raft. Many people I have met throughout my life I have found to be liars, cheats, actors or impersonators. Everyone in their lifetime has tried to be someone they wanted to be, rather than who they are. Many wear masks or disguise themselves as someone better or worse than who they are, for a reason that may be unknown even to them - this concept of becoming what you envisage to be 'right' through hiding your true nature is something I like to call the Huckleberry concept.
I know, at one point in my life, there will come a time when my line of white light will thin to a point where I will be afraid to look away for even a second, because if I do I may never find it again.
In many ways, such a woman would bring unsteadiness to the knees of any man that lay his eyes upon such beauty, and yet I feel nothing. Not one ounce of weakness has overcome my knees or shaken my heart for I, a soul once deepened with love and joy, have seen many women as blessed as she with such wondrous and smouldering looks as they. In turn, these women use their looks as ammunition against even the strongest of men. I have seen, heard, felt and been a victim of such a siren, for that is all she will ever be, a mythical beauty.
You may be asking, whom is this lowly soul who speaks with such cynicism and generalisation? Well, my friend, the name of Percival Coltrane is one that I was branded with as a child, and the term realism is my preferred description of my opinions.
My story is a short one, a one of darkness overcoming the light, a story of sights and sounds that slowly eat away at that white light inside every soul, eventually ridding us of our goodness and sanity. My story is not one to forget, however hard you try, so try your worst and best at once and watch as your white light fades.
As a boy, my mother was a shining beacon of goodness and love, she warmed the hearts of every soul she touched and she held my father's heart with softened hands. My mother was a painter; she could stand in front of a canvas for a day and create the most inspiring art you would ever see, a gift she shared only with my father and I. She never swore, nor did she curse or lie or shout or drink, she took each day as a blessing and never once doubted her faith in the Lord, or her faith in me.
An evening in April, the 17th, created a darkness that caused the light that once shone bright inside my soul to flicker ever so slightly and then begin to fade. A nightmare had awoken me in the dead of the night, I had the habit of running to my parents bedroom if a bad dream had woken me from my sleep, so that my mother would hold me tight and sing me into a dream. But this night, one that is the most vivid nightmare that I have ever experienced, a stranger stood above my mother as she lay asleep in bed. He stared at me through piercing green eyes as he leant over towards my mother and rolled her body to face me, showing me her pained eyes and her cheeks sodden with tears as she struggled to say five small words.
"You were my greatest masterpiece"
Over the years I have begun to realise that, even as that light inside of me fades, my memories never do. The memory of my mother, without hope or faith, has been branded into my mind with hot iron that will never fade. She was taken from me at the age of eight by a stranger with a gun; he stole her soul and with it went her warmth, hope and faith in everything, including her faith in me.
I was too young to understand my father's loneliness, and so when his second marriage was announced I felt utterly betrayed that my father could possibly entertain the thought of replacing my mother with any other woman. Not to say that my step-mother was akin to any fairytale step-hag. To describe this woman as hideous or even slightly so would be a bitter lie. She showed an elegance that is rare to find, as well as an alluring, well-defined structure to her face that only added to her smouldering beauty. Unfortunately, a consequence of this beauty was a great weight of insufferable cruelty that entangled itself around what was the empty vessel of her heart. After three years of barely being able to tolerate standing in the proximity of this ghastly woman, I lost my only remaining family - my father - who was unable to live with the suffering that this bewitching femme fatale had put upon him. He stood at the edge of the roof and looked to the heavens to find my dear sweet mother every night for hours, then days, then months, and eventually he tried to fly.
That was the night I ran away, ran through the fields and through the towering trees until my legs could carry me no longer. I eventually collapsed from exhaustion and slowly dragged myself along the floor to lie underneath a large oak tree in the centre of a field, cold and alone. I remember wrapping myself every inch of fabric that I had managed to steal from my home, desperate to stay warm until morning. Needless to say, my step-mother never found me, but then again, I doubt she even tried. Her rouged lips and condemning eyes never fail to haunt my dreams, placing distrust in my mind of any woman with such beauty. For beauty shows only the masking of a woman who holds the deepest and most relentless hatred for anything that contains inner beauty, as this type of spiritual allure is the only beauty that can truly steal the hearts of a nation.
I look to the woman before me, blessed with only a perfect shell, as she represents a lowly horse conch creature; Beautiful and fascinating for every being that comes across its fantastic shell, until the shell is removed and all that is left is a repulsive, hideous creature. You see, I am no perfectionist, nor am I misogynistic, pessimistic, or even cynical. I simply see things as they are, this is why I believe myself to be a realist, and realistically I see women, such as the one in front of me, as a symbol of all that has caused my weightless young soul to become my lead boots, my punctured life raft. Many people I have met throughout my life I have found to be liars, cheats, actors or impersonators. Everyone in their lifetime has tried to be someone they wanted to be, rather than who they are. Many wear masks or disguise themselves as someone better or worse than who they are, for a reason that may be unknown even to them - this concept of becoming what you envisage to be 'right' through hiding your true nature is something I like to call the Huckleberry concept.
I know, at one point in my life, there will come a time when my line of white light will thin to a point where I will be afraid to look away for even a second, because if I do I may never find it again.
