This yearning is forever
Holding a vigil with my Prince, conversing with him, meditating on his rich symbolism. The portrait of him watching over the Princess--so beautifully composed, as if an Art Nouveau composition of flowing lines grounded in strength, the firm lines of the bed and his tall, erect figure so powerful it's as if it's he and his strength the sweeping, soft, organic brushstrokes of the curtains are held up by. The pole around which this beautiful tent of yearning is erected, he rising firm and tall, the whole composition lifting and carrying the soft, colourful curves and curling shapes of her figure.
But Jaffar, oh, Jaffar.
The lovelorn would-be lover, master, teacher, the older and more mature man yearning to awaken this beautiful girl, so that he might teach her all the glorious beauty of love, of two people communing in flesh and spirit, and to lift her up to queendom. His tragedy breaks my heart. He has so much to give to her; in a manner not unlike the loving father wanting to give his child everything, to make her happy, to help her grow into a healthy, wise and content woman, sheltering her. I sense not sexual threat, not a villain driven mad from simple, greedy lust, but a passion that would willingly sacrifice itself for this girl-child's happiness--his body and his empire would he lay at her feet.
Oh, but now I am weeping. How is it that the beauty of this image can captivate me so?
It has to be the tension, the pain of unrequited love, a love thwarted, never consummated. The sheer yearning, the madness of it so contained, so tightly drawn with the single straight, vertical line of his figure; not a man trembling but turned into stone, no, into a diamond from this pressure that stands unreleased, forever thwarted. He is stillness, silence, inertia, suffocated, so perfectly controlled and contained. I think of those myths where people turned to stone, petrified forever in their agony. And my heart breaks for him.
But the strangest thing--despite everything I have written--the greatest beauty of this image lies in the fact that this moment will forever remain like this. The way the greatest love stories are remembered exactly because the lovers could never consummate their yearning, or were only united in death. The tension, its hopeless tragedy is what makes it beautiful.
Would Jaffar refuse a golden seat in Paradise if he were certain that beside him, Yassamin and Ahmad would be lying together in the seat beside him, holding hands, looking into each other's eyes with love? I think he would. He would rather have demons pouring molten lead into his eyes and ears for all eternity rather than to see or hear this sight he couldn't bear, to hear their soft, happy, tender, playful, laughing and loving voices as they rejoiced in their togetherness.
And still he stands there, forever the one yearning, forever the one burning, forever the one pouring, exhaling, bleeding his love out to her; and forever, she remains turned away from him, forever asleep, forever dreaming of another man. Never will she open her eyes and awaken to gladness, recognising him for the lover of her dreams; never will she reach out to pull him to her breast, never will his tears of joy be absorbed by her silks, glide down her hair, kissed away by her loving lips. Never will he fall into her embrace, fall inside of her body, curl up inside the womb of her love, fulfilled, a man joyous and content.
Forever will this vigil continue, his lone flame burning high and bright through this sorrow's eternal night.
And every time I look at this picture beside my bed, I ache for him. Ache. So much that at times, I simply cannot bear it, the anguish, the heartbreak.
Oh, Jaffar.
But Jaffar, oh, Jaffar.
The lovelorn would-be lover, master, teacher, the older and more mature man yearning to awaken this beautiful girl, so that he might teach her all the glorious beauty of love, of two people communing in flesh and spirit, and to lift her up to queendom. His tragedy breaks my heart. He has so much to give to her; in a manner not unlike the loving father wanting to give his child everything, to make her happy, to help her grow into a healthy, wise and content woman, sheltering her. I sense not sexual threat, not a villain driven mad from simple, greedy lust, but a passion that would willingly sacrifice itself for this girl-child's happiness--his body and his empire would he lay at her feet.
Oh, but now I am weeping. How is it that the beauty of this image can captivate me so?
It has to be the tension, the pain of unrequited love, a love thwarted, never consummated. The sheer yearning, the madness of it so contained, so tightly drawn with the single straight, vertical line of his figure; not a man trembling but turned into stone, no, into a diamond from this pressure that stands unreleased, forever thwarted. He is stillness, silence, inertia, suffocated, so perfectly controlled and contained. I think of those myths where people turned to stone, petrified forever in their agony. And my heart breaks for him.
But the strangest thing--despite everything I have written--the greatest beauty of this image lies in the fact that this moment will forever remain like this. The way the greatest love stories are remembered exactly because the lovers could never consummate their yearning, or were only united in death. The tension, its hopeless tragedy is what makes it beautiful.
Would Jaffar refuse a golden seat in Paradise if he were certain that beside him, Yassamin and Ahmad would be lying together in the seat beside him, holding hands, looking into each other's eyes with love? I think he would. He would rather have demons pouring molten lead into his eyes and ears for all eternity rather than to see or hear this sight he couldn't bear, to hear their soft, happy, tender, playful, laughing and loving voices as they rejoiced in their togetherness.
And still he stands there, forever the one yearning, forever the one burning, forever the one pouring, exhaling, bleeding his love out to her; and forever, she remains turned away from him, forever asleep, forever dreaming of another man. Never will she open her eyes and awaken to gladness, recognising him for the lover of her dreams; never will she reach out to pull him to her breast, never will his tears of joy be absorbed by her silks, glide down her hair, kissed away by her loving lips. Never will he fall into her embrace, fall inside of her body, curl up inside the womb of her love, fulfilled, a man joyous and content.
Forever will this vigil continue, his lone flame burning high and bright through this sorrow's eternal night.
And every time I look at this picture beside my bed, I ache for him. Ache. So much that at times, I simply cannot bear it, the anguish, the heartbreak.
Oh, Jaffar.