Memoriae, 2018 (Pt.2 of the series „A tribute to the searchers“)

1912, Paris

„Chassez le naturel, il revient au galop“

No mind in this world can fully forget a memory. The city of light haunts you with the memories of your past only to have you drown them out with alcohol later on. My salvation, my cure, my treatment against this evil that plagued my mind. I thought then of love as evil, as something which drags out each and every drop of willingness out of you just to see you in pain. Only through pain can you find love, a tough truth which echoes through every street light in Montmartre. I tried chasing the evil away, but it kept coming back. There were nights where the bourboun got to me and all I saw was her face only to fall asleep on a nearby bench in a part of new to me at the time. The strongest descisions require the strongest wills, but no will can erase a memory not to mention one so strong. A man can have many faces but the facade will crumble under its own weight eventually leaving the image of a scarred child in the rubble. I tried creating this facade of the intouchable man only plagued by matters of buisness but the cracks were vivid. Not knowing my mistake in doing so I created a new person within me which I hid from who I really was. The simple reason being that I couldn't cope with the loss of love which I held so dear. Love became an enemy which I dared not to mention. Diplomatic tensions at the time couldn't compare to the tension between my two personas. I now an innocent bystander in my own mind whatching the chaos I had created just to forget one night. My faliure lied in the fact that the night I tried to forget represented eternety. My person longed for the love depicted that night, one true and one pure under the starlight. In the battle within my mind I trully lost myself, with my only friend being a bottle of alcohol and a bench infront of Montmartre. Sunday prayers being a place where I could distance myself from everything trying to let my sorrows out in a chant devoted to the only one who could help me now. Church taught me that love is something that is a yet untouched aspect of nature not plagued by human exploitation. For the time I tought as much only to learn later that it is an art of exploitation, further adding to my theory. My fake persona thought nothing much of it only to tell me to get back to work and forget any petty sorrows which held my mind hostage. In the internal fight my past was lost on me, England and Jane held no significance to me anymore. Her memory is not something I can forget for she is the reason I travelled here on my own. The funeral changed me, from then on I started running from all my troubles in a gallop. A trait which is allowing all my troubles now to grow without any barrier. Her memory told me to come here in a twisted and poetic way, that here I could find someone like her. Like that she was, the most selfless being God had ever created. I used to think she watched over me but now I have a feeling at though she is guiding me towards something. The mystery persisted for a long time with my personas still dueling inside my minds vast open space. What could it be? Love, at last? The answer sooned surfaced in the form of inspiration. During my life in England writing is how I made my living, since Jane passed away I stopped writing because my mind was held under siege by my emotions. I couldn't find the words to write down what my thoughts were at the time out of sheer maddening sadness. In the end I had to run away, never to forget but to move on. Right now it seems that I'm moving on too much and at a rapid pace. Later I found that I had moved on in every aspect of my past life but one, love. My time with her let me have a glimpse of what true love looked like in its abstract form. Heaven itself can't hold such a divine thing as is true love. Once you get a taste you're addicted and forever on you will search for it if it is taken away from you. Love is the strongest and most expensive opiate ever to exist. The price is always paid in pain, misery, sadness and pain but once you see it again you'll forget every problem, each point of pain on your body or mind. Cleansing of the body through pain is what love is, and only if you pay it's expensive toll will you be allowed a glimpse into Heaven. Faith is based on love, it explains true love as devotion to God with the toll being absolute obedience. Human love after all remains the only way a mortal being can see Heaven for itself before its meets its ultimate demies at the hands of the creator. The lights of Montmartre tell a story, they tell you your own story so that you can continue on with life not to be plagued by the past ever agian. A seat on the bench which overlooks Paris illuminated by a kindly streetlight is a conversation with a power which you can only feel. Poetry lies within a moment when you can feel a word before you say it. Melancholy of a sort, allowing you to move on but forcing you on a path.

Memoriae, 2018 (Pt.2 of the series „A tribute to the searchers“)