[div style="max-width: 360px; font-family: georgia; color: #664b4a; text-align: left; padding-top: 8px; padding-left: 10px; letter-spacing: 1px; font-size: 12px;"]NEVER GETS ANY BETTER, ONLY GETS WORSE

Is there a cure for grief, a way in which it may be assured to never bloom as those thorn laden roots twist and coil in the hollow emptiness of a split open chest — learn to never love.

That which lacks the fleeting chance to find a sure footing may not cause harm, yet such contained too many variables, numerous the chances sound reasoning may be diluted. A lesson hard learnt, over and over hammered home as though the experience may stick, an effect of such grandeur it may not be replicated. But it always was. To love, allowed that gentle warmth a chance to worm past walls so carefully erected and maintained, expected and thus acted out, sought even as better judgement called for its rejection.

Hand in hand went it and grief, the bitter tang as the sweetness abates, the reminder an end is always coming though malleable, an unknown bearing too many possibilities. Why was it they chased love, wished for it upon those glittering points caught in the vast expanse of the sky well above, to appear pen drawn to scrawl stories of an affection that might never end for it was all fantasy. Maybe it was for a mere taste of that euphoria it promised, a fragile moment given purpose and meaning thus the price was a trivial thing.

He knew them both, understood them in frames so different. Lingered on the clumsy affection and hasty warmth of childhood sweethearts unprepared for the reality as they play at make believe. Indguled in the unsure but hasty meeting of new love blossoming, understood and feared, wanted even as it incited terror. Always was he drawn back to the soft comfort of the years, a love created and maintained over years, a smoothed gem cherished for the time he was allowed. And so too he knew the grief of their break, held it as though it were a stone in his chest, a compressing weight that stole his breath and left him only endless agony beneath the desire to turn back the clock.

Vincent would not pretend this led to a perfect understanding, that he knew the manner in which it ate at the fickle heart, so soft and ready to take even with the danger that came from it. No, he was an imperfect mirror that may not reflect grief in the manner Aesior experienced it, but he could understand it.

As to the reasoning which drew him away from where jutting peaks met, land carved by a river that speaks with the voice of melted frost, one may only fathom a guess. In truth he bore none, movement sought to quell the activity that left his mind buzzing with the static murmur of white noise. It never helps. Yet continued his mindless wandering, languid pace unbroken, landscape never changing. Maybe this was simply how it was meant to be, change proven nothing more than an illusion, the brush quietly whispering back.

The thread of his thoughts broken, ragged strands falling away as the world came into slow clarity, numerous the times he blinked. Fool did he feel with the realisation behind was left his covering. He had no hour at which he planned to turn back and yet even without the peramiter to break, the impossible supposedly accomplished. Lacking a reason to do so now closer he stepped, caught only the offer put forth by Cleopatra, little, if any, the clue as to what prompted it present. Slow the shift of his attention to pages written with well articulated meaning, prolonged the time he studied them. Understood the written word to some degree, enough he was capable of getting by, rusty had he grown with it, however, numerous passed made before the words settled.

It seemed they shared a common ground he much preferred the other need not carry, a burden none equipped for and thus often were they crushed. Gentle the hum that bypassed his pursed lips, vision held for a moment on the written message before it rose, met a scene rather tender. An intruder was he reduced to, mouth opened and closed at irregular intervals another focal point sought. The barren landscape offered nothing, always back was he drawn. "I am sorry…" Quiet that he finally settled on, an echo of that said prior, nothing else felt adequate and so it was left at that.

© MADI