Literature entry wk 8
This was supposed to be a poem. It turned out to be a short story somewhat. This kinda came out as a reaction to finally getting halfway through "The Picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde. And, as unrelated to Aust. Lit. as this book may be, it inspired me to write about something with hidden meanings, ambiguous even, much like Judith Wright (I hope) and also of Alex Miller in his writing style.
The Picture of You
This picture of you, so young and full of life, yet showing the cracks of decades passed in its dust encrusted glass. Your own little momento, of an age come and gone. You, sitting prettily as Dorian. Something about that visage, enchanting, eternal. Something eeriesome, beyond all comprehension. Dark and twisted, you can't quite place it. Like a melody played in mute, but finding yourself singing along to its empty tune, nevertheless.
This picture of you, so mysterious in its beauty, showing your all, and not at all, the reality that exists only in you. So different to the You of today, and even more to the You of tomorrow. This you of the past is nothing like you of the You of the present; the intensity of that difference is startling, gut-wrenching perhaps. High cheekbones, pink plump lis, a twinkle in those impossibly dark eyes. No. This is not you. The You with a sunken face, hollowed cheeks, impossibly dark eyes that shine like a shadow. Not at all.
This picture of you, so deceiving in its pretty frame. Showing another reality, hiding inconvenient truths in that bright smile. No, it was all differnt now. You've become inhuman, a monster.
This picture of you, your only piece of evidence, your own little Dorian.
