medusaeyes.com

But I encourage you to read through the site anyway. Medusa Eyes was born of a wild idea of mine that all art inspires stories…and in this project I focused on Victorian and Pre-Raphaelite art. I would look at an image and literally write the thoughts that it inspired in me, promising myself that even if the resulting piece was drivel, I would still post it. Thanks for all the positive feedback, but right now I am so busy publishing my two other sites:Pre-Raphaelite Sisterhood and LizzieSiddal.com that I can not give this project the time it deserves. But I shall return. . . . (said the heroine as she gracefully exited the room)

Please feel free to browse through the archives!

Thanks again,
Stephanie

She floats aimlessly with no destination in mind. She doesn’t remember how or why she decided that this should be the way to live her life. Her elders would shake their heads, assuming that such a lack of ambition was typical of only the very young and naive. But she knows that it was more than that. It was fear. Fear of what, she’s not quite sure. Failure? Disappointment, perhaps? Or how about rejection?
Floating slowly, she willingly gives up the right to complain about her stops along the way. Wherever she may be, she arrived there free of expectations so that she can never be disappointed. All the while, there is the tiniest of nagging thoughts whispering in the back of her mind. She has ignored it successfully so far, but somehow it continues to grow. One day it will make itself felt with the gut-wrenching realization that she will eventually reach a point in which her boat will turn. It will turn around in such a way that she has no choice but to see where she has been, as well as where she could have gone.

She will face her apathetic existence. Her non-choices were, in themselves, choices.

Two bodies of water run parallel and she chose to just go with the easy tide, riding it as long as she could.

Until she reached

The End.

This post features The Lady of Shalott, painted by John William Waterhouse.

I can hear them coming. The familiar sound of hooves and wooden wheels that always signals a month of dread has again come my way. The yearly visit. Laughing silly sisters with beautiful faces and little brains. They drip with jewels as they bestow their good graces on Father and I. The Father who raised us all and whom I am expected to care for until he dies.

I like my life. I enjoy my solitude. It is only in the presence of my sisters that I feel the pricklings of doubt about the path my life has taken. True, I do not have a rich husband, or any husband for that matter. I do not regret that, since I know full well that none of my sisters love their husbands. They love their money and the position it gives them. I don’t believe that their husbands love them either. I have always pictured them as handsome men that were giggled and flirted into submission during courtship. When will men realize that silly ignorance that seems adorable in a nineteen year old girl will cease to be attractive when she is a thirty-five year old woman with the same simpering habits?
I am alone with my books and art. I have few friends, but they are loyal companions.

And I have myself. I am content with the knowledge that I know who I am and what I value in life. That is something that my sisters can never say.

This post features The Mother of Sisera Looked out a Window, painted by Albert Moore in 1861

I’ve always been aware of their presence. But my relationship with you was so tender and young that I felt it best to ignore them, to pretend that they did not exist. I realize now what my mistake was. Like a lot of young girls, I made your beliefs more important than my own. I was vulnerable and alone. I felt that solitude was my enemy. Now I know it is dear, sweet friend.

So the thoughts and feelings that I buried when young, the elusive and mythical beasts that I ignored for the convenience for others, are welcome now. They are a part of me in a way that you never should be. Not because I’ve excluded you, but because you never understood me to begin with. You chose your place with the others and now you must discover your own place in the world.

It’s funny, really.To think that once upon a time I believed that I should ignore and bury what I could plainly see simply because you were incapable of seeing it too.
I can not tell you how I broke the spell. Time, I guess. I grew up. I gathered wisdom with age. I learned to listen. I shed my security blankets.

Now I understand. Your opinion did not matter to me, as it was based on your own past experiences. And your experiences do not apply to me. Some day you will find the one that they are applicable to. I wanted you, and I thought that it would be admitting failure if I said that I did not agree with you.

But now you are my past. I can accept the parts of me that I was afraid of before. I can see the mythical. I can embrace the folklore of my being. I am my own story. I love my past and my future because it is mine. It is wholly my own.

I no longer need you to validate what I see.

Art in this post by Gustave Moreau (1826-1898) The Unicorns

The shadows are always here, lurking nearby. Waiting for the perfect moment to make their move, to make themselves known. They belong neither to the present, nor to the future. They are rooted firmly in the past.  And I cannot look away.

A wise man once said, “When your thoughts are in the past, then you are in the past.” Perhaps he meant it to be helpful. Or perhaps it was a curse. Either way, I am here now with my present and my past merging into one endless loop that I cannot break away from. It is not that I lack the strength or desire. It is will power. It is the broken record of my mind. Dwelling on the past has simply become a habit.

I will break the mirror. No matter how strong the pull, I shall tear my gaze away from these shadowy figures that haunt me. I will no longer give them life. They will wither away and die. With the past. Their long tentacled fingers of thought can reach me no more. Nevermore.

I will replace this habit with a new one.

We’ll see how long it lasts.

Art in this post is I’m Half-Sick of Shadows (The Lady of Shalott) by by Sidney Harold Meteyard

It’s all an illusion that they have created. The feelings that they profess to feel so deeply don’t even exist. She’s so caught up in excitement and apprehension that it has never occurred to her that she should wonder if it is he that she loves, or merely the thrill of having this delicious secret from the rest of the world. Stolen moments that seem so precious will invariably become sordid in the light of a new day. She will grow to hate herself, to feel sick to realize what she has become. With each visit, she is aware that a sense of emptiness has become palpable in her life.
And what does he feel?

Nothing. This is just another episode of a game that he will continue to play.

Art featured in this post: Forest Tryst by Edmund Blair Leighton 1853-1922

She was not the first to try to deceive us. Appearances can be deceiving, but not to those who live a life removed from the world. I suppose she saw us as innocents, secluded from the dangerous world from whence she came. How she underestimated us. She swept into the world that we had created with the purpose of destroying it. She searched for one, not realizing that it would mean attacking us all.

We did not give her that chance.

Like I said, she was not the first. My fellow sister and I, we dig her grave because we have done it before. We each have our jobs here. We know our duty. We do not have to seek out those who betray us. We wait for them to reveal themselves.

As I dig, I look furtively over my shoulder. I can not help it. As I have mentioned, she was not the first.

I assume she will not be the last.

The Vale of Rest Painted by Sir John Everett Millais in 1858-59.

I’m in. Any nervousness I may have felt during my journey was wasted, for they didn’t seem to question me at all. They have welcomed me with open arms. Vulnerable and willing open arms. In fact, my nervousness has quickly been replaced by disdain for all the foolish naivety that I’ve encountered since my arrival. But I must set that aside. I shall ignore the stupid, sheepish looks I receive from the other women here. They are misguided, and are here for the purest of reasons. While they take their vows of silence, I search for the one of their flock that I have vowed to find. One that I am required to seek. She has become legend in our undercover world. I know not her face. I have no idea of her name. I only know that while I respect her work, I must destroy it. She alone is worthy as my nemesis. And it is she alone that I must kill.

I am not in fear of discovery. The Sisters here are clothed in a veil of another world. I doubt they will see me coming. They do not fear the lioness in nun’s clothing.

The painting featured in this post is Convent Thoughts by Charles Alston Collins (1828-1873), painted 1851

A bold comeback. This is what she has planned. And as she plans it, she remembers a phrase from long ago. The only French phrase she knows, having encountered it in a Daphne Du Maurier book at the age of twelve.  Je Reviens, I return.
Art in this post by Georges Rochegrosse (French, 1859-1938) “La Poursuite de la Maya”

Since I haven’t written in a while, I’ve decided to pull out an old entry:

She was engaged once, although she has pushed it out of her mind. He loved her and was endowed with a large enough fortune to satisfy her whims and capricious needs. But she was unable to tear her eyes off of herself long enough to carry on even the simplest conversation with him. When she did not have her mirror in hand, she would seek out her image in windows, vases, or any reflective surface nearby that was suitable and did not distort her features. Being otherwise occupied, she failed to notice when his interest waned and his love faltered. She was blissfully unaware as he slipped quietly away into the arms of another girl. A girl who, although plainer in the face, was sweet and true.

This was to become a common occurrence. People passed through her life as quickly as they came. She had no idea that their initial interest in her beauty faded once they realized a vacant mind and an empty spirit were all that existed beyond her lovely features.

She has fallen prey to her own spell. Unable to part from her own reflection, she gazes at what she thinks is the most compelling image on earth. Others matter not. Except, of course, when they affect her.

Soon, she will pluck the rose out of her hair, for its beauty rivals her own. It may draw an onlookers gaze away from her face and she can not allow that. For she needs them, she feeds upon their flattery and attention. Without it she fears that she will fade away into nothingness. To sustain her empty shell of a life she needs them to agree with her, to approve of her, to discuss her loveliness.

She is alone in the room. Alone with her mirror, yet she does not notice. The mirror deceives.

This post features the painting Vanity by John William Waterhouse.

All she wants to do is love him. Simply. With no obstacles, no drama. And all that stands in her way is his own obstinance. Like a stray animal that has to be coaxed into safety, she pulls him to her even as he pulls away. That they are constantly caught in this emotional struggle is a cruel irony–it is the last thing she wants. In her desire to cultivate his love, she kills it. Their love is tainted with sorrow and neither one of them will allow it to die a natural death.

This post features The Young Queen and the Page by Maxwell Armfield (1904)

I can remember in profound detail how I broke his heart. His name? Not important. What is important is that he was a rogue. A scoundrel. He was the proverbial bad boy that girls are too often drawn to, in the hopes that they will be the one to redeem him.

I, in my limited teenage version of wisdom, made it a point to hurt him before he could hurt me. Why? I cared for him. I longed for him to care about me in return. Oh, he was interested in me, I knew. I strung him along with every smile. I giggled and laughed at every joke. I dumbed myself down because it was what I thought I should do. I cultivated his interest with my flirtations. But mere interest was not enough to sustain a relationship. I knew it was a matter of time before I was exposed for the little idiot that I was. I reacted out of fear. And so I did the unthinkable. I will not describe it here. I will not give words to those memories. Let’s just say that I behaved in a manner unworthy of me. I choose to remember it so that I will never forget how much I have grown. But I do not enjoy the remembering. What I did, it was beneath me.

And I did it to spite someone. A boy. And now I cannot even remember his name.

I hurt him before he could hurt me. Then I moved on. Without looking back, I moved on into adulthood and life until one day the memory crept in upon me. A memory that taught me that in moments when my younger self thought that she was strong, she was weak…she was low…she was sad. A parody of all other teenage girls who came before her and who will come again. And that was the moment when I vowed that my own daughter would never feel as I felt, would never give in to such weakness. I will give her more strength. I will enlighten her, telling her of the ways of the world. I will assist her on this journey.

Never once did I stop to wonder if my own mother had made the same vow.

This post features The cunning skill to break a heart, painted by Eleanor Fortescue Brickdale (British, 1871-1945)

You and I have only just met and I am already on the first fringes of annoyance. I lay on the border between irritation at your inappropriate use of endearments and apathy because you are not the first to do so. I sigh inwardly at the fact that you are one of the many men I have met who are under the misapprehension that women swoon with delight when called “sweetheart”, “babe”, or “darling” by men who don’t know them well enough to have earned that right. It is the ultimate conceit. To call me by such a name, as if were your own little pet, is patronizing. It is a privilege that you can never earn.

Yes, that is what you can never understand. These terms imply not only friendship, but a geniune sense of caring about the other person. Caring that takes time to cultivate and grow, fed by mutual feeling and respect of both the mind and the soul. This takes time. You are either too impatient or too ignorant to take that time.

So with your first utterence of the word “Sweetheart”, I have tuned you out. I must do it and at the same time, I find it sad. Because you may be a person of potential. You may be a person of strength and intelligence with whom I may have had a wealth of interesting discussions about books and art or perhaps even philosophy and history. We might have laughed together or puzzled over riddles. We might have found a common ground.

Now we will never know.

This post features Faustine painted by Maxwell Armfield.

Vivid images, the product of my slumber. I seek you in the day as I try to piece together the moments of my dreams. Am I looking for truth? Signs? Meaning? Or is it simply that this misty memories are preferable to my mundane day?

It is in dreams that we see ourselves as we wish we could be: no longer limited by our circumstances. We are stronger, smarter, beautiful. Until, of course, the dream changes and I find myself repeating my senior year in high school yet again and I can not remember my locker combination. But all is not lost, because I possess (as all dreamers do) the supernatural ability to cause the lock to open at a mere snap of my fingers as fairies fly to whisk me to another portion of my dream. Suddenly I am in a new place and a new time trying to make sense of it all. I am Alice at the tea party, frightened because the Mad Hatter’s gibberish has begun to make sense to me. I begin to disappear, dissolving like the Cheshire cat into another part of my dream.
And so I find myself at the seaside, with the roar of the waves in my ear and mist bathing my face. The mist is strange and has a scratchy feel to it. I turn to avoid it. Opening my eyes I discover that this mist is in reality my cat. He’s decided it is time for me to awaken from my precious slumber. His food dish is empty, after all. What is more important than that?

Ah dream, I shall try to capture you again tonight.

“To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come”
—-Hamlet, William Shakespeare

This post features The Stuff that Dreams Are Made of (1858), painted by John Anster Fitzgerald.

“I mean no disrespect,” she says as she turns to walk away, ” I just can’t do it anymore. I no longer have the energy to explain myself to you.”

She trembles a bit as she begins to take those first steps, recognizing that metaphorically speaking, she has just taken the most difficult step of all. It was a step that no one else will appreciate, for the significance of it is beyond their reach. They will continue to see her through their own eyes, clouded by the shades of their own experiences. She is aware of this, she just no longer cares. Well, she no longer cares as much.

She has reached that desperate point that is so often necessary in certain kinds of relationships. You can not continue to weigh your decisions based on what they will think, what they will say, or what their reaction will be. You can not keep your dreams and plans a secret simply because their reaction will be negative. They will always be negative until you just prove them wrong. But how do you prove them wrong? Just as she did. Take the brave first step.

But what is the first step? What is it really about? Is it about confronting them, screaming that you don’t need their approval? Is it about hurting them in order to break away? I suppose those things could be a part of it, but in reality taking the first step has nothing to do with them at all. It’s a matter of discovering who you are beneath the layers of negativity that have been cloaked upon you. Excavate. See yourself as a separate and complete being. Take responsibility. Live.

She continues down the steps amid hushed whispers of awe. Well aware that there will be talk and gossip about her, she continues on her path. It’s a bit unclear where she’s going, but she goes with confidence.

This post features Mariamne Leaving the Judgement Seat of Herod, painted by John William Waterhouse

Her eyes betray her. She’s never been able to mask any emotion with her face. She is the proverbial open book. If only she were like those other girls, the ones who can smile and flirt shamelessly with witty comebacks. They are the ones who are in full control of their emotions, stringing the boys along as if it were sport. She longs to be like them. She’s embarrassed by her lack of grace.

She will not meet his face for fear that he can read her emotions. She loves him. If she looks at him then her face will blush with the flaming evidence of her inexperience. She pleads with herself to keep her feelings in check long enough to look at him and give him one smile. Once she does, she’ll see that his eyes betray as much as hers do.

He feels just as awkward as she does. Fumbling for words and small talk, he tries to draw her into conversation. He mistakes her unwillingness to look at him as boredom. His heart breaks every time she looks away and yet he refuses to give up. She’s so unlike the other girls, he knows that she would never string him along. Her sweet nature and innocence have captivated him. He’s determined that she will be his one day.

And she will be.

This silly dance, this awkward courtship will become a happy memory. As they grow older, he will delight in the fact that she still retains her innocence. The light he sees within her is still there. She still betrays her feelings with her eyes. She laughs too loud. She loves him too much. And luckily for her, she still is not like those other girls. They have all grown into sad parodies of the girls they used too be. Hard, lonely women who used to string boys along only to realize that it was they who were being used. Perhaps if they had learned to show their emotions with their eyes.  Perhaps.
This post features A Difference of Opinion, painted by Sir Lawrence Alma Tadema.

Laziness and comfort creep in as welcome guests on this quiet day.
Although relaxing together, each member of the family is separated by their own individual thoughts, connected only by the melody. The younger one imagines stories that seem to follow the crescendo of the tune as she constructs characters and fairy tales. While the tune frees her imagination, she is unaware that her brother is feeling pensive about tomorrow and her father is dwelling on the past. Their mother wants to insulate them and protect them from pain. Forbidding the world to enter their sanctuary, she creates barriers with music.

They are simultaneously encapsulated by the music. Free from the outside world, yet imprisoned in their own minds. Bonded by the shared experience.

This post features A Music Party, painted by Arthur Hughes (1832-1915)

Her life is spent between pages. Someone else’s words feed her soul. Someone else’s thoughts and characters have become embedded in the tapestry of her life. But, where do they end and where does she begin? Her mind is not an empty vessel, after all, waiting to be filled with the musings of another.

So then you have to ask, do the books she can not live without merely mirror what already exists in her heart? Do they reflect truths that she already knows, yet remain buried deep within complex layers of her psyche until she recognizes them as her own through the eyes and words of an author? She finds that the layers peel away with each new experience. Exposure to different authors helps her to blossom. Even an author who lived and breathed a century before in a time vastly different from her own. She can picture them sitting as they write, wondering if it is good enough and making revisions in the midst of candlelight. Never knowing that their words would mean so much to a girl not even born yet. Authors in another age with courage enough to scribble their very soul on paper. Yes, this person had more courage than she. For her days and nights (when not spent reading) are spent imagining tales and writing words she never intends anyone to ever read. She accepts the fact that she will never be a “writer”.

Or will she? It remains to be seen.

But to be a reader? This she is proud of. She knows she is part of a delicate dance between authors and those that read the product of their craft. For what is the beauty of a sonata if it is unheard? She is crucial to the dance, yes even to those who penned their words centuries ago. For their stories become a part of who she is, that is their immortality. They feed her and contribute to her. She is the parasite absorbing their creativity to feed her own. And she grows.

This post features Ophelia painted by Pierre Auguste Cot (1837-1883)

Technorati tags: flash fiction, Short Stories, pre-raphaelite, victorian, ophelia, reading

She wonders which side of herself is the one that most people see. Is it the side that she cultivates, in the hopes that it will mask her weaknesses? She covers her lack of cleverness with a carefully honed vocabulary and a practiced, pedantic nature. She can and will point out the flaws of others in the hope that in doing so, they will not see her own. But does she acknowledge her own? Or have they vanished underneath this misty veil of another personality that she has created?

The truth is, she has always felt stupid and dull. Her attempts at conversation fall flat, her features never even as dazzling as the proverbial girl next door. So she created another side who now has found the freedom to emerge.

Except now this other side has taken over. A savage, feminine monster of the worst sort. She forgets who she was in the first place. Was she the stupid, dull girl? Or is she this diva-like monster who is willing to tear others down so that no one else can eclipse her? Her thoughts are muddled, she forgets what it was that bothered her in the first place. What was it? That she was dull? Too nice? A nice, safe, boring girl? It actually sounds rather refreshing now that she thinks of it. That’s a girl she’d like to be friends with. If only she could remember who she was. If only she could stop seeing this negative image of herself. It has become like the negative of a photograph, what was once white is now black. Stupid is now smart, yet kindness is now evil.

She could find her way back to her true nature, if she tried (perhaps). If only she wasn’t having so much fun. (You understand.)

This post features Fair Rosamund and Eleanor by Sir Frank Cadogan Cowper

Technorati tags: flash fiction, “pre-raphaelite”, Stories, Creative Writing

“Please”, she thinks, appealing to him with her eyes. “Think of me, for I shall think of you. You are all I have dreamed of.” Her dreams have been simple, that at least is in her favor. She dreams of a man who has a love, no, a passion for books. A respect for the written word. A man who can understand her daydreams and all that they encompass. A man that can understand that sometimes her soul is drunk with feelings that some may never know. They both know that their relationship will go no further than the brief moment they have just shared. Conversation will be the extent of this mutual intrigue. But that, of course, is never the end. Memories combined with imagination always feed longing in those who are not happy with what they have.
He will return home to a wife who could never duplicate the look he just saw in those young eyes. Why? Because her parents bred her only to be a spouse and they succeeded. They never prepared her for a moment in which someone could treat her as an equal. So now she sits, left out. Left out of the quiet moment that her husband now indulges in. The moment in which he remembers a young woman, whose breathtaking air of originality, of brilliance and wit so surprised him that now he sits alone….wishing that what he calls home could somehow include her. But it cannot. For his home was created by the woman that his mother chose as his mate. His partner in life that he hardly knows. It is not her fault. In fact, he feels a sort of sadness for her. Not a complete sadness, you mind, for every conversation he has had with her has confirmed his own belief that she was easily convinced that to marry well was her fate. Where was her own voice? Did she not have her own instinct that told her what kind of marriage she deserved? He guessed not, because he gathered nothing at all from her. If she only knew how he longed to hear an argument from her, for that would at least show him that a strong spirit lay within her, that she was not just a pretty face.

But no. He can not think of her, for now he spends his time thinking of the young lady with whom he has spent but a moment. A brief, but lasting moment. A young girl who refuses to be married off easily. She has shown him that true strength can flourish in femine thought, that she had no need for games or wiles. That she could truly be herself without trying to capture a man, she had no need of him. And by having no need of him, she has truly captured him as no other woman ever could. Even as she said goodbye, even as she acted as if she could never need him, she still said “please”…..please do not forget me, for we have had a moment that I shall not forget.

Somehow, that is enough.

The time has come for her to make a decision. She stands at the crossroads. Will she shed the years of girlishness and accept maturity with grace? Or will she flee all responsibilty, embracing the world of frivolity that she does not want to leave. Because that is question, isn’t it? Can we recognize it when one stage of our life is coming to an end? Can we embrace a new beginning even while plagued with doubt? Do we feed the doubt by listening to others? Or hang on to that which we know and are comfortable with?

What will she do? Grasp at the past with clawing, wild fingers? Or embrace a new future with unflinching arms, secure in the knowledge that her past is only a small portion of who she is. Sometimes we just need to move on in order to meet ourselves.

Redefine.

This post features Young Priestess, painted by William-Adople Bouguereau (1825-1905)

“How dare he,” she thinks. Her thoughts are like fire to her mind, her anger burns whatever loving feelings she may have had. It is enough. It is old. And it is over.

He will not believe it, of course. But when he realizes that the part of her heart that was so easy to manipulate is no longer available to him, he will go quietly. Quietly, because his strength and bravado are born out of the domination of others. Quietly, because he is surprised and frightened at the thought of having to find another submissive. Quietly, because he has no choice. For now he knows that her strength, although she had trouble finding it, is far greater than his own.

This post features Reverie, painted by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Their time has come. They march slowly down the spiral staircase without fear or suspicion, not knowing that they are leaving their souls behind. Each pliable young spirit will now be molded along with her peers, taught to conform. They do this willingly, sacrificing their own original brand of beauty for something unoriginal and common because it is what their society demands. An ideal has been created that no one can live up to unless they are willing to cast their own essence aside.

If they resist conformity, there is the fear that no man will deem them a suitable partner. And if he did, there is the danger that he will forever point out her flaws, and the physical attributes of those that chose to abandon themselves. It’s not the man’s fault, however. They too have been conditioned as to what they should accept as beautiful and enticing. It is a senseless cycle.

It is a great deal of effort for something so fleeting. In a few short years, they will be replaced by a new group of innocents who are eager to make their way downward in the sad, slow walk away from true beauty and originality only to become mass manufactured products instead of the women they were meant to be.

This post features The Golden Staircase, painted in 1880 by Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones

They were figments of her imagination, born within the recesses of her mind. She could feel their sweet breath, hear their whispers in her ear, smell their unique scent. It is because of them she appeared lovely and happy to those who pass her in the street. But to those that know her, her eyes are vacant. Her voice has become distracted and feeble.

At first, she was able to realize that others around her could not see her angelic visitors. This, of course, confirmed her own belief that she is special, destined for greatness and beauty. She alone has received this gift, these constant companions. She kept their existence a secret, protecting them. She spent magical hours talking to them in the night, listening to their songs, their knowledge of life.

Soon they had a firm grasp on her sanity. She no longer cared to keep the secret. She would ask people “Do you not see them?” Her words began to take on an ominous meaning for her loved ones, she always spoke of this invisible pair that they could not see or hear. In hushed tones she would whisper in a frightening voice, “But they are here! They are here!” These beautiful yet horrible beings that had taken over her life. The woman they knew and loved, the girl that they remembered was no more. She had descended into a spiral of madness, never to return. She has turned inward, retreated for the world around her. They are still there, of course. She cannot get rid of them. They steal things and pull her hair. She curses the day they came, for it was the day she began to forget.

She no longer knows her name or her age. She’s not sure exactly where she lives. People come and visit her. One visitor claims to be her daughter, but it cannot be true. She knows that she’s not old enough to have a grown child. Or is she? Does she remember a child? Her mind is like fog, the memories are mist. She looks in the mirror at a face she does not recognize. But she recognizes them. They did this. And they will not go away.

This post features Innocence, painted by William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905)

There are moments that you cannot forget no matter how much you try. They are always brief moments. Quick. Fleeting. But it is not length of time that is a factor, it is emotion. Shock, pain, anger, grief. The feelings are seering, burning an imprint on your mind. It becomes like a negative of a photograph so that when you remember it, it is in an inverted sort of way. Details and colors may be the exact opposite of what actually happened, but the emotion remains unchanged.

It is moments like these that slice your life into two categories: before and after. You then use the moment to define, to describe, to excuse things even though you know you shouldn’t. You will tell yourself that you should rise above and learn from it. You should be strong, allow the pain to help you evolve into a better person.

But you cannot. For the moment, once it exists, has its own cycle. It is fated to play on a seemingly permanent loop in your memory. It returns like persistent fleas after you think you have been successful in your extermination. This cycle will repeat itself until a new moment occurs, dislodging all that you held onto. A new slice is created, a new before and after. But this time you do not notice. You continue on. You grow, yet your growth is unobserved.

Until one day, you travel down a familiar road and stumble across an old memory. You poke it a bit, like a bruise, to see if it still hurts. Surprisingly, it does not. Then you can say something very adult like “Well, fancy that!” and then you continue on your way, wondering what all the fuss was about.
This post features Love’s Shadow, painted by Frederic Sandys