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Literature Text
Is it possible to fall in love with an abstraction?
I allowed myself to fall in love with only a single fragment of the whole, and insignificant fraction of a form who in her lucidity still haunts me.
It was as if, in that very moment, when I let my emotion be stifled by some sort of meek prudence, I had been permitted to briefly glimpse the incomparable flesh of Venus; Only to have shut my eyes and turned my head away. For such is the effect of divinity upon my soul; humility. Or at least self consciousness.
Mnemosyne became my executioner, each time I recalled the elegance of that unknown seraph I felt the blade of fate, majestic in its uncompromising power, come crashing down upon me.
My obsession, a seemingly weightless encounter, bearing only the significance which a desperate mind might bind to it. One amongst a million others, and upon retrospection, or introspection I might say, I should have been no different.
The delicate curve of her throat, half blanketed by silken hair, a brief glimpse of her hand as she tucked away a strand of hair behind her ear... statuesque in her perfection, which neither Michelangelo nor any other could do justice...
And that was all I saw; she never turned, instead laying her head against the ageing glass, a little book of poetry forgotten on the floor beside her. I think it was Baudelaire, or Chateaubriand. I could not see, but I was certain.
That journey was a verse, my life a canto, but she was the poem.
On that day I remember little else. The train rambled on into the vast expanse which is the East like a sentence gradually diminishing into silence, screeching through the dust and heat, steadfast pistons beating an unvarying cadence. Onward, to Baghdad. Leaving the world behind to resume its lethargy.
I remember no details within the car aside from that alluring ghost.
I allowed myself to fall in love with only a single fragment of the whole, and insignificant fraction of a form who in her lucidity still haunts me.
It was as if, in that very moment, when I let my emotion be stifled by some sort of meek prudence, I had been permitted to briefly glimpse the incomparable flesh of Venus; Only to have shut my eyes and turned my head away. For such is the effect of divinity upon my soul; humility. Or at least self consciousness.
Mnemosyne became my executioner, each time I recalled the elegance of that unknown seraph I felt the blade of fate, majestic in its uncompromising power, come crashing down upon me.
My obsession, a seemingly weightless encounter, bearing only the significance which a desperate mind might bind to it. One amongst a million others, and upon retrospection, or introspection I might say, I should have been no different.
The delicate curve of her throat, half blanketed by silken hair, a brief glimpse of her hand as she tucked away a strand of hair behind her ear... statuesque in her perfection, which neither Michelangelo nor any other could do justice...
And that was all I saw; she never turned, instead laying her head against the ageing glass, a little book of poetry forgotten on the floor beside her. I think it was Baudelaire, or Chateaubriand. I could not see, but I was certain.
That journey was a verse, my life a canto, but she was the poem.
On that day I remember little else. The train rambled on into the vast expanse which is the East like a sentence gradually diminishing into silence, screeching through the dust and heat, steadfast pistons beating an unvarying cadence. Onward, to Baghdad. Leaving the world behind to resume its lethargy.
I remember no details within the car aside from that alluring ghost.
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J, just lovely.