Once Upon A Heartache

I had my heart all ripped out and smashed into tiny little bits some time ago; typically, I dealt with it by being ultra-civilised and doing all  those things you do when you protect yourself with your intellect, rather than delve into the primitive and find yourself a nice brick wall and a crate of dinner plates.  And of course, at the time my dignity was hammered into a tiny little box marked "Exhibit A" which is never a good place to be, and I had no desire to allow the author of my broken heart to bear witness to my emotional and spiritual decimation. That was my business, and he opted out.

Once Upon A Heartache
©Zian Silverwolf
Anyway, time passed, the sucking chest wound gradually stopped bleeding into everything, and it was possible to consider the reality from a distance, and with perspective. The futility of suppressed rage and strangulation of self-imposed control and self-denial was impressive in its absence. However, there was a grief left in the balance, an acceptance of loss that was finally revealed in its place, and a layer of experience that I have consistently denied in my life - until now.

And any new world is mine for the exploration.

The mood is dark, not gloomy. There is a luxury in allowed grief that is soft, yielding, a permissible vulnerability that is beyond the bounds of definition and justification - it is sorrow, where all things are muted by the distance between the self and everything else.. All edges are blurred and relaxed into shadow, and depth of perception is altered by the isolation and alienation that is so inherent in the experience.To be at one with the self, to see where you end and the world around you begins; no light to reflect, no oneness with the universe - you are a whole person, singular and apart.

Time passes, and the clock is ancient and judgemental, every hour that passes in darkness is another thought that rises from within and strips away meaning, tears away at belief and hope, ruins the future and seeks to redefine the present, until there is nothing left but the truth that no thought alone can rescue the self from being who and what it is. Only honesty can save you. Only the truth that there is something to grieve for, and no words can bind a wound that deep.

The spectre of another cold embrace, like death itself, a return to a life of harsh light, hard edges, limits and rules, and regulated loving. Where passion is scripted rather than discovered, where emotion is interrupted rather than pursued, where the heat of the fire is dulled by the perfect lines of the ultimate human. Where "being" is prescribed - don't think, don't feel, don't be, until permitted. Where being broken apart and re-made makes you the creation, rather than the creator. Where the annihilation of self through a labyrinthine puzzle of opposites and delusions is considered "psychology". Where the desire is robotic, pre-programmed, and a cold, spiritless and ready-to-assemble woman is the goal; Like death itself.

Nature laughs last; there can only ever be renewal, only growth, only change. We are the measure of a life lived, not a book written, not a mouthful of cliches and rote behaviour, rote learning and rote belief. 
We are real life, not a standardized and regulated classification, not a parable in action or a metaphor for a filing clerk's pigeon holes. We are who we are; you cannot ask a wolf to wear sheep's clothing. 
Destroy sensitivity and behold the monsters you have created. Diminish imagination and wonder at the dullness of your existence. Defy humanity and be in awe of how crippled you become. 
All things that grow in boxes become twisted miniatures of their true selves.

Technically, the return to painting after so many years of focusing on graphite is something of a revelation; especially in the light of a new emotional target. Previous works have always been carried out with very fine brushes, much like drawing with paint - the great departure here is the use of a large brush, to achieve the softer, blended edges, and working a lot with wet-on-wet, blending colours on the canvas instead of the palette. 
Being acrylic, the work is fast, using large strokes to cover large areas before the paint dries.

And in the palette, nothing but cobalt blue, black and white. The choice to remain in a monochromatic environment was decided entirely on the mood and emotion; there is no relief from grief, even while there may be relief discovered through it. It is a moonlit colour scheme; such is the nature of tragic romances that they are thought of in the light of the moon, where poets and troubadors have sought the words and song for their stories. Where in the past, I have always turned to paint for the vibrant and storybook colour schemes, working in tones alone is yet another step forward in the journey - which I think is highly appropriate for a new adventure.