pictures
He used to have this hobby, of looking at beautiful people in fabulous paintings, and giving them names and lives. He would wonder where they were headed in those paintings. What kind of things they would do the rest of the day. That kind of vision gave him a reason not to worry about living his own life. He became so indulged in those fantasy lives, he found out that his own world seemed unsatisfactory.
Until he saw her portrait, and everything seemed to make sense to this young man all of a sudden. The way she looked in it, it seemed too real to be just another one of his stories. She sort of lived in him, which by a large understatement, is something he'd been lacking for a long time. And then his world seemed to open up to reality.
And then he met her. Her portrait didn't do justice to what he saw before him. Everything started to matter to him. Everything in the world started to move the way he wanted.
Then he fell in love. Not a love that we feel with the warm whiskey washing down our throats. It was a feeling so far inside of himself that it almost seemed like it couldn't be him at all. And his world opened up even further. It seemed like this couldn't be real at all. And he felt that it never would be. So he never gave the picture all the attention it needed.
So she left. Not left as in going on vacation, and certainly not the kind of "left" that goes for away not to return. The kind of left like leaving someones body. He wasn't apart of her anymore. He tried other paintings to try to fill in the places she took with him. The other ones did an alright job of covering up those holes, but they could never fill them.
It surprised him to learn that she hadn't gone very far from him, but still managed to take so much. She had tried and tried to get him to look just once at her picture; just one more time, to try to show him that what he wanted was right there. But he was proud. And he was unsure. And she waited as long as one could be expected. And she was gone again.
This man that had long gazed into pictures had realized that it wasn't others that he had so needed to define. It was himself. He hurried to his photo book to try to catch anything that was left of her. But she had left. Not the kind of left, as in leaving someone's body. Not the kind of left he had seen before. The kind of left that packs up their bags and goes far, far away.
That man is at the station now, chasing down the train.
Until he saw her portrait, and everything seemed to make sense to this young man all of a sudden. The way she looked in it, it seemed too real to be just another one of his stories. She sort of lived in him, which by a large understatement, is something he'd been lacking for a long time. And then his world seemed to open up to reality.
And then he met her. Her portrait didn't do justice to what he saw before him. Everything started to matter to him. Everything in the world started to move the way he wanted.
Then he fell in love. Not a love that we feel with the warm whiskey washing down our throats. It was a feeling so far inside of himself that it almost seemed like it couldn't be him at all. And his world opened up even further. It seemed like this couldn't be real at all. And he felt that it never would be. So he never gave the picture all the attention it needed.
So she left. Not left as in going on vacation, and certainly not the kind of "left" that goes for away not to return. The kind of left like leaving someones body. He wasn't apart of her anymore. He tried other paintings to try to fill in the places she took with him. The other ones did an alright job of covering up those holes, but they could never fill them.
It surprised him to learn that she hadn't gone very far from him, but still managed to take so much. She had tried and tried to get him to look just once at her picture; just one more time, to try to show him that what he wanted was right there. But he was proud. And he was unsure. And she waited as long as one could be expected. And she was gone again.
This man that had long gazed into pictures had realized that it wasn't others that he had so needed to define. It was himself. He hurried to his photo book to try to catch anything that was left of her. But she had left. Not the kind of left, as in leaving someone's body. Not the kind of left he had seen before. The kind of left that packs up their bags and goes far, far away.
That man is at the station now, chasing down the train.