Paradise wasn’t lost.
It was forced to the deepest down; in the drowning waters where murk and mourning live. Strangled by the life it belongs to, because in the end, only one could live free. That’s how it is sometimes. A million words burned. A million worlds destroyed, shattered, put away, dumped as The Little Prince falls to the sand.
Rippled reflections of self, distorted by physics, the drowning arms lose shape, take jarring angles as refraction and reflection turn the body into something else. Something inside that’s not really self any more; staring back from the ripples on a once-calm surface. The eyes hollow. The heart beats but without passion. The soul eventually numbs because the burning can’t last forever.
Art is art. It’s expression. Interpretation. A look into what the world means to a single soul at that moment the piece was created. Conceived. Executed…then executed.
It’s a life form inside a life, as we struggle to break the confines of our understandings and misunderstandings to let free our interpretations of the world around us. To rip open skin and flesh, old wounds, and new passions, hopes and dreams because the body is too small of a vessel for it all. To give air to that which burns just beneath the skin.
Sometimes it is a mercy killing to save the life it belongs to. And that is the saddest of all. When the only answer is that drowning. It’s singular. It is solitude without solace. And it is the grief of losing the love of your life.
Cry, my Little Prince. Grieve from the deepest places. The drowning pools so deep inside...but never forget those waters. They are steeping a brand new you. A grand, unstoppable, force of nature waiting to reawaken.