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 searing, 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

The air is thick with an intoxicating madness. At first, she is shocked by her behavior, having never before experienced such a combination of freedom and force. She imagines the faces of those she knows and can almost feel their disapproval. How shocked they would be if they could see her now, an uninhibited and wanton creature. And yet she commits no sin, no crime against others. Her only infraction is her lack of inhibition, her sudden zeal for nature, her need to embrace a life that has gone unlived. She sees night as one who has never seen before, feeling the breeze as one who has never felt. Their imagined faces float away, as her own civilized thoughts do as the night progresses.

Is she enchanted by some unknown magic, one that seduces beings into a new world, creating a new reality? Or is she the enchantress, capable of seeing a reality that has always lain just below the surface?

Or is she the beast? Tame and quietly purring, yet secure in the knowledge that she can raise her voice in a powerful roar and tear you limb from limb.

This post features The Enchantress, painted by Arthur Wardle (1864-1949)

“If I keep my eyes closed,” she thinks, “Perhaps they will believe I am asleep.”

She hears her companions in the distance, giggling and whispering in hushed tones. She recognizes the sound of gossip and mock horror as they delight in the scandals and misfortunes of others. Without even knowing what their subject of the day is, she knows that they will feign shock and dismay. At times, during these whispered secrets, their veneer of respectability wears thin and joy in the sorrows of others can be seen. They will look down their pretty noses at whatever poor soul is currently losing their place in society, knowing full well that they are no better. They can cling to their meager pedestals merely because they are the sisters and daughters of importance, instead of through any achievements of their own.
She can no longer tolerate this empty existence, banished to parties and frivolity because of her gender. It would be more tolerable if she knew others who were also interested in a world that is much broader than their drawing room.

She hears one of them say her name, trying to wake her from her pretended slumber.

“Let her sleep, she’s so tiresome anyway,” says the young brunette whose chief concern in life is the size of her waist.

“Even if I slept my days away,” our young heroine responds,”My life would still have more depth than yours.”

There is silence, followed by a little nervous laughter. They are not exactly sure what she means, only half of them realize that she was insulting them. Perhaps they will discover the meaning of her words later in life, when they themselves become the subjects of gossip and laughter. She shifts slightly, her eyes still closed, a satisfied smile graces her face.

This post features Flaming June, painted by Frederic, Lord Leighton (1830-1896)

It is said that forbidden fruit is perhaps the sweetest, and I can see the attraction. Is it the taste that is sweet? Or does secret knowledge make it so? It is perhaps the knowledge that your indulgence is forbidden, unsanctioned by those who supposedly know better.You have lived a life where your actions are not your own and you take this little freedom, a stolen liberty, that can be seen as unforgivable. Will you later indulge in guilt as well? Or will you smile with satisfaction like the Cheshire cat, when all evidence of your actions have disappeared?

Within reach of the forbidden, you start slowly and timidly as one does when they are unsure of the taste. But as the initial uneasiness is drowned in the blood-red juice of the fruit, you lunge in with the gusto that can only be understood by one who has been suppressed and has longed for their own path.

Here it is. The moment. The realization that there is a vast world out there, larger than the nay-sayers will have you believe. It is there to be explored and this is your beginning.

But do not take more than your fill.

This post features Proserpine, painted by Dante Gabriel Rossetti(1828-1882) © Birmingham Museums and Art Gallery

She dwells among the stars now, this is what I believe. You hear me say this and I see your patronizing smile. You think I am in denial, fabricating fanciful beliefs in order to evade the truth. I know logically that she is gone and I accept it. But there is more to it than that, as you will find out one day if you are ever unfortunate enough to lose someone you are deeply connected with.

She departed quickly, suddenly, unexpectedly. Those days are a blur. A strangely vivid blur. I cannot remember who gave me the news or how they said it. But, I can remember how the breeze seemed to stop that day and the air grew unnaturally hot. I remember that I did not argue as some do when they receive similar news. No, I knew that it must be true. To do things quickly and surprisingly had been her way in life. Death would have been no different.

I knew in my heart that she had gone, and at the same time I was aware that she did not cease to be. A person of her strength does not simply evaporate into memory or pass into nothingness. The feelings I had often felt in her presence could now only be duplicated when I gaze into the nighttime sky. This is where she is, this is what she stood for.

So I gaze into the stars and am able to make out her features in a celestial version of connect the dots. You may doubt me, you may laugh because you keep your heart safe and dare not dwell on such things like death and grief. But remember Juliet’s words to her Romeo:
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,

That all the world will be in love with night.

This post features Night, painted by Edward Robert Hughes (1851-1915)

Playing music calms my soul. I can charm the creatures around me, just see how these simple fish are drawn to me during my brief serenade. Why do others not see what they see? Are humans so blind? My loved ones, if indeed they can be called such, dismiss me on a daily basis.

They have labeled me, you see. From childhood I have been known by my apparent awkwardness. The more I try to fit into their world and their ways, the less I succeed. There is no place for me.

If only I could feel the confidence that I have in this very moment. But the confidence born out of solitude is quickly forgotten when I am once again in their midst.

This post features The Charmer, by John William Waterhouse (1911) Private Collection

Power is a lonely thing. No laughing girl am I, there will be no carefree moments of gaiety for me. Who can join me? What man will stand strong by my side? Can he impress me with his hunting skill, money, or goods? There are many men, many possibilities. Yet they will remain silent.

Oh, what I would give to be a peasant girl for one brief afternoon! To throw my head back and laugh loudly, to shed this facade of civility that has become my prison.

I cannot blame them. I see it through their eyes and know that a man will hesitate if he feels he has nothing to offer.

If they only know that even the simplest of gestures would be more than enough for this lonely heart.

This post features Cleopatra, painted by John William Waterhouse. Credit Line: Cleopatra (1888)/Waterhouse, John William/Private Collection

Daydreams and silliness were what we reserved for lazy summer afternoons, when all knowledge of winter has faded away and we imagine that summer knows no end. The fragrance of blossoms becomes a lingering and welcome guest at our impromptu gathering. After a hard winter, we cast our cares aside and enjoy a splendid day in each other’s company. We feel the sun’s thousand rays as fat bumblebees hum in the distance, not knowing that they were never meant to fly. The twilight becomes enchanted with fireflies and a slow breeze while our daydreams dwindle into the night as nature weaves its spell. In the winter to come, we will remember this day as a fond and distant memory and look forward to summer so we can recapture this moment again.
This post features The Roses of Heliogabulus by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema
Credit Line:Roses of Heliogabulus, 1888 (oil on canvas), Alma-Tadema, Sir Lawrence (1836-1912) / Private Collection, © Whitford Fine Art, London, UK

Arrested in a moment, her fingers play idly amongst the strings. Her thoughts reverberate just as the notes of her violin will when she plays. But she will not play today, for the music is not in her. Perhaps tomorrow will be a sunnier day and this melancholy mood will pass into memory, becoming a part of her future song.

This post features Veronica Veronese by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Veronica Veronese, 1872 (oil on canvas), Rossetti, Dante Charles Gabriel (1828-82) / © Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington, USA, Samuel and Mary R. Bancroft Memorial

She cannot help herself. As much as she knows she shouldn’t give in, she is compelled to listen. She is consumed by the desire to know the intimate details of her neighbors lives, to know their private conversations. She sees them in public and turns her eyes away. It is not right, to know so much. It is shameful, she says to herself, to feed off of their private utterances. And yet, she still cannot stop.

They bicker. She is there. They whisper sweet nothings. She is there. They discuss dinner options. Again, she is there.

She no longer has a life of her own, it is eaten up by her interest in others.

This post features Thisbe, painted by John William Waterhouse.
Credit Line:Thisbe, Waterhouse, John William (1849-1917) / Private Collection, © Whitford & Hughes, London, UK

The day your life ended was the day mine changed forever. Without you, even simple daily tasks become a challenge. Life dares me to struggle on, laughing at me when I give in to the grief. Because grief consumes me, it owns me. There are days when I long for the pain to end. But for now, I embrace the pain. I nurture and feed it and refuse to let it go. For the moment I move past the pain, I fear I will forget our joy.

This post features The Doubt: Can These Bones Live painted by Henry Alexander Bowler
Credit Line: Henry Alexander Bowler (1824-1903) Copyright Tate Gallery, London

Years later when she would look back upon this moment, as she would often do, it seemed as if it was all a dream. She would remember it as one of the happiest days of her childhood and yet she is unable to describe why. She is surrounded by angels and innocence, beauty and vitality that only children seem to possess.

The day was a precious one, for no reason other than on this particular day she was aware of her own potential and the future that stretched before her seemed bright and full.

This post features The Blush, painted by Eleanor Fortescue Brickdale

She looks away during his serenade. He is flattered, thinking that she is lost in the tune. In truth, she cannot allow herself to meet his eyes, for her thoughts are with another. Another voice remembered from a similar moment. That voice, those eyes, those notes are where her heart is. It is the strongest passion, the one that remains unrequited. And it is made all the more appealing because it is denied. It will never be.

So here she stands stiffly, listening to a tune she does not deserve and will not appreciate. She is kind enough to never let him know that his song pales in comparison to the one in her memory. Of course, she has no idea that the voice she remembers has been made lovelier through the act of her remembering.

This post features Love, painted by John S. Clifton.

Suspicion tickles her mind, playing not-so-innocent tricks with her thoughts. He truly loves her, of this she is certain. Yet, why does she harbor this nagging fear that all is not well? Words overheard take on a different, sinister meaning to her ears. Her heart, once confident and happy, now wears a cold shroud of doubt.

Does she see clearly? Is she aware of deception around her? Or is it simply that innocent acts become twisted when viewed with the eyes of insecurity. He reassures her, he comforts her. Yet she cannot stop.

Her words, once loving, have become harsh and accusing. Her smile, once joyful, has grown false.
Life has taken on a dark hue of hate, for she is certain that she knows all. But does she?

She hesitates for a moment, questioning whether she truly needs to view the contents of the box. Her friends have tried to dissuade her, telling her that it is all in her mind. They know that she pushes him away with her fear. But still, she will continue.

Too late, she realizes that the hatred contained within the box was of her own making. Now she has set it free and it cannot be undone.

This is how relationships die.

This post features the painting Pandora by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Credit line: Pandora, 1869 (chalk on paper), Rossetti, Dante Charles Gabriel (1828-82) / Faringdon Collection, Buscot, Oxon, UK

Silence is a golden beauty, a fragile and precious thing to be treasured above all the other moments that make up a day. Soon it will pass as a new moment swells to replace it. The solitude will shift into memory and the day passes on and grows into the busy routine to which I have become accustomed.

It was the solitude that I had longed for, the silent moment in which I was free to be myself. I found the part of me that has no fears or worries, no possibility of losing myself in other people’s expectations. In that moment, I was whole.

Although it was but a small slice of time, it was complete and perfect simply because I siezed it and recognized it for what it was: sweet solitude, made all the more beautiful because it is rare.

This post features Solitude, by Frederic Lord Leighton
Credit line:Solitude, c.1889-90
Lord Leighton
Collection of Maryhill Museum of Art

“Fool!” Nimue cried. “You, whose name is known throughout the land. The greatest wizard of all time has fallen prey to me, and under no magic whatsoever!”

Merlin stares at her as she gloats. His face is almost passive but for the shine of anger in his eyes. He shall let her gloat and berate him, for it is nothing compared to what he is telling himself in the recesses of his mind. Irritated that he fell for her feminine trickery, his heart sinks as he understands the extent of his foolishness. As mortal men have done through the ages, he has succumbed to her charms and flattery, losing everything as a consequence.

He takes consolation in the fact that although she now holds his book of spells, she will never fully understand it. For that requires a depth of self knowledge and will that he knows she does not possess.

“I could have loved you,” she continues in an almost musing fashion,”but loving you is not enough. You eclipse me. Your force, your personality is too great. I want you to understand that I must do this. I must. For I shall surely disappear beneath your power if I do not.”

Frozen in body, but not in thought, Merlin saw the truth in her words. Or rather, the truth as Nimue perceives it. Had she been capable of an honest, giving love, then nothing in his psyche could have ever eclipsed her. But this she would never know, for it is her own insecurities that created this illusion that she would lose herself. It is her own doubts regarding her worth that will inhibit her from ever knowing or understanding love.

Sleep begins to invade his mind. He is aware of the spell she has cast and is giving in to it. She has worked her magic. Arthur will never again be able to lean on him, for here he will remain amongst the hawthorne trees. It is growing dark and he feels his body start to sag and give way.

“I have learned much from you,” he hears her whisper.

“No.” His voice is slurred as his says his final words. “I am afraid that you have learned nothing at all.”

This post features the painting The Beguiling of Merlin by Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones
Credit line:The Beguiling of Merlin from `Idylls of the King’ by Alfred Tennyson (1809-92), 1870-74 (oil on canvas), Burne-Jones, Sir Edward (1833-98) / © Lady Lever Art Gallery, National Museums Liverpool

She waits. Her eyes stare at the sea, darting from wave to wave, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He will come, as he does nightly, braving the turbulent sea for his love. She imagines him swimming with long powerful strokes. His arms must surely ache and burn, but it will be of no consequence to him, for he is resolute in his goal.

She does not know that as the water stings his eyes, he pictures her face. He thinks of their last embrace and tries to remember all of the things he wants to tell her tonight. He is often so in awe of her presence that he forgets trivial things, daily occurrences that he wants to impart. He dreams of a future in which he will not have to make this watery sojourn to spend brief moments with his betrothed. He has pictured their life together in minute detail, not the fanciful daydreams of young lovers, but a strong passion with force that will not easily fade. He dreams of what could be, what should be. With each stroke, each powerful push through the water, he is willing himself to her side. He propels himself forward with a mixture of sheer physical strength and emotions too strong for him to name.

He still sees her face in his mind’s eye as the water pulls him downward. He begins to choke, not out of panic, but out of fury and anger. He is aware of what this means. He has encountered the one fight that he knows he cannot win. There will be no more victory.

She will continue to wait until the sun begins to rise and her beacon, which had symbolized a light of hope for him, is extinguished. She tastes her own bitter tears and they remind her of the salt that she has tasted nightly on his lips, the mark of the sea.

This post features the painting Hero Awaiting the Return of Leander by Evelyn De Morgan
Credit Line:Hero Awaiting the Return of Leander, Morgan, Evelyn De (1855-1919) / Roy Miles Fine Paintings,

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. Sadly, 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 of 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.