Foreword: I guess it's a bit vague and heavy on the symbolism, but hey... so is art. I don't want it to completely be clear, given the warped qualities of the drawing, but I do want it to make sense. Maybe you won't connect it, maybe you will. I think it serves as a clear enough template for you to draw your own meaning. A tip: Consider the name of the drawing. Maybe that'll help.
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The heavens peeled back, a beam of sienna piercing through the storm. The sun was too blotted by the clouds to sting the retina; it invited reverance, and though his eyes hurt, they refused to empty themselves of the orange light.
A cusp of lightning sizzled across the sky, a transient crack in the known world. Cole danced toward it, his shoes filling with sand and his coat battering his calves in the conniving gust. The world split again, and for a moment he thought he could see the distant horizon, emerging for just a moment out of the turquoise vacuum.
Cruel fingers wriggled between his ribs, dabbing at his soul and grating it through, sucking it from his abdomen. He cried. He did not care. No one was on the beach but him; he had nothing behind or before him but the unending trek. More than once, he fell, sobbed and, stopping a moment to douse his tears with sand, continued.
The rain had started to come, now. A wall of instable racket pouncing upon him from high above; no matter which direction he turned in, the torrent would find him, twisting and crashing into him. A murderous tide that came from no quake. He ducked as a stone, taken by the gales, whipped by his nose, arcing out towards the sea. The reception of the boulder was lost in the chaos.
Cole began to fall more often, as much from the clawing at his stomach as from the wrath tumbling about him. His kidneys beat against his lungs, his diaphragm crushing his heart, as a strong pocket of the damp air lifted him a moment before dropping him headfirst into the sand. He lay a moment, waiting for something to drop from above and crush him. The expectation went unfulfilled, and Cole hauled himself to his knees, brown and wet from head to toe.
Rasping for air, he watched each puff of mist dissipate. Every labored breath took on as much water, clinging to the wall of his chest. He rested. Considering turning back, he rose unsteadily and took in the world around him. Alas, there was nothing familiar or comforting to be found.
"All right," Cole gasped, the words lost on even his own ears. "If I can't know where I am, I'll at least know where I'm going."
He trudged on, assaulted on all sides. His revolver now felt the full bearings of the world, nearly dislocating Cole's shoulder as he moved on. He refused to leave it be. It was the one tool that would aid him, the one thing left that would respond to him.
Cole came to a great ditch, at least five feet across. Inside, the water and sand had mixed into an embroiling muck. He stopped, hunched over. The walk itself had been treacherous enough. He was tired, and his own emotions already had made him feel far too heavy to move on, much less to clear the chasm.
But he thought of Thomas, of his courage. How he had repaired Cole, leaving himself behind, vacuous and ignorantly happy.
Remembering Thomas was hard, especially when he'd grown so attached in the brief year they'd spent together. His eyes boiled, trying desperately to escape and bury themselves, but his mind knew its own eye could not be cleared so easily.
"Deep breaths," Cole muttered, recalling a few innocuous words of wisdom. " 'It's not supposed to be easy.' "
He took his deep breaths and a few backward steps to match. He ran. With each step, his legs suck deeper into the sand, but as his legs burned and his chest pulled inward, Cole felt a growing resilience. He cast his firearm over the hole and followed it.
The wind had given him a devil's advantage as he leaped, but it soon doubled back and sent him crashing into the other side. Cole clawed at the top of the precipice, kicked away at the wall for something solid, but there was nothing to be found. An exclamation point to his helplessness, a wooden log struck him in the temple and sent him into the slithering abyss.
The mud sucked at his face, a succubus kiss. Every muscle tensed, Cole pressed into the murky ground, and at last he came free, spitting out the blackness that had invaded his mouth and throat. He looked up at the top of the ravine, growing with debris by the second as sand billowed about and chewed his face like gnats. He laughed. How close he had come, only to die in God's septic tank.
Again, he lay. Anger stirred in him, scorching him, consuming bleak unhappiness deep in his gut. Burning it like fuel -- for now, at least.
How could he settle in when the cottage was so close? Just over the ridge. He didn't need to live, he just needed to get a bit farther.
Fumbling in his pockets, Cole found his two switchblades. He sighed, fruitlessly trying to wipe the mud from his eyes. He was out of time. The storm was worsening by the second, and already his fire of hope had begun to wallow. He stabbed the first knife into the muck and began to work his way up.
Reaching the top, every part of his body was lead. Cole stabbed his knives into the top of the edge and rolled himself to safety one last time. The fatigue was too much to go on, but he still snatched his revolver, scrubbed it against his pants, and started moving. He could barely walk, and his chest begged to meet the ground. He refused his physical desires.
He just needed to get a bit farther.
A shutter banged perpetually against the wall as Cole plodded up the stairs of the outer porch. The powerful wind took another souvenir in the form of a nearby patio chair; Cole grabbed the knob to avoid joining it.
It took several tries to dislodge the door from its frame, as Cole had little left in him by this point. His heels dragging, he moved across the hardwood floor as the world outside played with shadow puppets.
She sat in the living room, on the edge of the couch, ready to hurry to the bathroom should the storm worsen. Cole struggled to get the hammer back on his revolver. She was so careful when it was her own life. At last, it conceded.
Turning back, she gasped. She said nothing, her eyes hosting fear and apprehension.
Cole nodded in acknowledgment. "Doctor."
The flash was impossible to notice through the lightning.
It had been hours, and at last the eye of the storm had arrived. A brief spot of clarity amidst the stupor. Cole sat on her balcony, gazing into the rocks below. The shadows of the waning clouds passed over him.
Things had wound down. At last, Cole allowed himself to collapse, to fall, to shiver and moan and give in to the plaguing wretch deep inside him. The tears dropped fast, as he stared at the ocean below, swallowed quickly by the blue violence.
He didn't need to live.
http://www.arthistoryarchive.com/ar...nd-of-Lovers-Paolo-and-Francesca-c1824-26.jpg
_______________________________________________
The heavens peeled back, a beam of sienna piercing through the storm. The sun was too blotted by the clouds to sting the retina; it invited reverance, and though his eyes hurt, they refused to empty themselves of the orange light.
A cusp of lightning sizzled across the sky, a transient crack in the known world. Cole danced toward it, his shoes filling with sand and his coat battering his calves in the conniving gust. The world split again, and for a moment he thought he could see the distant horizon, emerging for just a moment out of the turquoise vacuum.
Cruel fingers wriggled between his ribs, dabbing at his soul and grating it through, sucking it from his abdomen. He cried. He did not care. No one was on the beach but him; he had nothing behind or before him but the unending trek. More than once, he fell, sobbed and, stopping a moment to douse his tears with sand, continued.
The rain had started to come, now. A wall of instable racket pouncing upon him from high above; no matter which direction he turned in, the torrent would find him, twisting and crashing into him. A murderous tide that came from no quake. He ducked as a stone, taken by the gales, whipped by his nose, arcing out towards the sea. The reception of the boulder was lost in the chaos.
Cole began to fall more often, as much from the clawing at his stomach as from the wrath tumbling about him. His kidneys beat against his lungs, his diaphragm crushing his heart, as a strong pocket of the damp air lifted him a moment before dropping him headfirst into the sand. He lay a moment, waiting for something to drop from above and crush him. The expectation went unfulfilled, and Cole hauled himself to his knees, brown and wet from head to toe.
Rasping for air, he watched each puff of mist dissipate. Every labored breath took on as much water, clinging to the wall of his chest. He rested. Considering turning back, he rose unsteadily and took in the world around him. Alas, there was nothing familiar or comforting to be found.
"All right," Cole gasped, the words lost on even his own ears. "If I can't know where I am, I'll at least know where I'm going."
He trudged on, assaulted on all sides. His revolver now felt the full bearings of the world, nearly dislocating Cole's shoulder as he moved on. He refused to leave it be. It was the one tool that would aid him, the one thing left that would respond to him.
Cole came to a great ditch, at least five feet across. Inside, the water and sand had mixed into an embroiling muck. He stopped, hunched over. The walk itself had been treacherous enough. He was tired, and his own emotions already had made him feel far too heavy to move on, much less to clear the chasm.
But he thought of Thomas, of his courage. How he had repaired Cole, leaving himself behind, vacuous and ignorantly happy.
Remembering Thomas was hard, especially when he'd grown so attached in the brief year they'd spent together. His eyes boiled, trying desperately to escape and bury themselves, but his mind knew its own eye could not be cleared so easily.
"Deep breaths," Cole muttered, recalling a few innocuous words of wisdom. " 'It's not supposed to be easy.' "
He took his deep breaths and a few backward steps to match. He ran. With each step, his legs suck deeper into the sand, but as his legs burned and his chest pulled inward, Cole felt a growing resilience. He cast his firearm over the hole and followed it.
The wind had given him a devil's advantage as he leaped, but it soon doubled back and sent him crashing into the other side. Cole clawed at the top of the precipice, kicked away at the wall for something solid, but there was nothing to be found. An exclamation point to his helplessness, a wooden log struck him in the temple and sent him into the slithering abyss.
The mud sucked at his face, a succubus kiss. Every muscle tensed, Cole pressed into the murky ground, and at last he came free, spitting out the blackness that had invaded his mouth and throat. He looked up at the top of the ravine, growing with debris by the second as sand billowed about and chewed his face like gnats. He laughed. How close he had come, only to die in God's septic tank.
Again, he lay. Anger stirred in him, scorching him, consuming bleak unhappiness deep in his gut. Burning it like fuel -- for now, at least.
How could he settle in when the cottage was so close? Just over the ridge. He didn't need to live, he just needed to get a bit farther.
Fumbling in his pockets, Cole found his two switchblades. He sighed, fruitlessly trying to wipe the mud from his eyes. He was out of time. The storm was worsening by the second, and already his fire of hope had begun to wallow. He stabbed the first knife into the muck and began to work his way up.
Reaching the top, every part of his body was lead. Cole stabbed his knives into the top of the edge and rolled himself to safety one last time. The fatigue was too much to go on, but he still snatched his revolver, scrubbed it against his pants, and started moving. He could barely walk, and his chest begged to meet the ground. He refused his physical desires.
He just needed to get a bit farther.
A shutter banged perpetually against the wall as Cole plodded up the stairs of the outer porch. The powerful wind took another souvenir in the form of a nearby patio chair; Cole grabbed the knob to avoid joining it.
It took several tries to dislodge the door from its frame, as Cole had little left in him by this point. His heels dragging, he moved across the hardwood floor as the world outside played with shadow puppets.
She sat in the living room, on the edge of the couch, ready to hurry to the bathroom should the storm worsen. Cole struggled to get the hammer back on his revolver. She was so careful when it was her own life. At last, it conceded.
Turning back, she gasped. She said nothing, her eyes hosting fear and apprehension.
Cole nodded in acknowledgment. "Doctor."
The flash was impossible to notice through the lightning.
It had been hours, and at last the eye of the storm had arrived. A brief spot of clarity amidst the stupor. Cole sat on her balcony, gazing into the rocks below. The shadows of the waning clouds passed over him.
Things had wound down. At last, Cole allowed himself to collapse, to fall, to shiver and moan and give in to the plaguing wretch deep inside him. The tears dropped fast, as he stared at the ocean below, swallowed quickly by the blue violence.
He didn't need to live.
http://www.arthistoryarchive.com/ar...nd-of-Lovers-Paolo-and-Francesca-c1824-26.jpg
. I just noticed no link to the picture.
