There were frozen spiderwebs in the frosty morning, touched with dew like a shiny gloss. There was golden sunlight on the dawn horizon and bright orange-hued autumnal leaves piled high upon the lawn in fragrant heaps that crackled with the blowing by of the breeze.
These dreams and visions that bumble and bounce through my mind, like a cartoon tumble-weed, I recollect in memory of her; who walked with me over green pastures, in fairytale everglades, through fen and forest, up mountains, down riverside paths, across icy lakes and wilderness ravines. Who delved ever deeper within my heart, who bore ever downward into my soul; in search of the elusive treasure trove we call love. And who, after the light of our love had faded and destiny drew us apart down different roads, she journeyed ever further toward loneliness and martyrdom, down secret paths in the night, alone on a quest to the innermost depths of mystery and eventually madness. Who explored ever more erratically the blinding ecstasy of existence and who eventually, after enduring the turbulent chaos of psychotic adventure for many solemn, solitary months, arrived in a pink-padded room with no windows.
I remember it all as once it was for still it yet remains in the caverns of my mind, where my memories float and curl like whisps of smoke. I remember the weathered earthenware floor of our cosy old farmhouse in the countryside. The tall grass rippling and fluttering in the wind like rolling waves upon the sea. The purple-tinted sky swooping over the vast valley like the hooded cloak of a wizard in ancient lore. The heavenly wheatfields and corn stacks where strong cypresses stood like stone obelisks or sphinxes through the long ages. The look of wonder in her eyes as she stood in awe, looking up at the starry night sky and gazed adoringly at the pale moon. The warmth of her soul as we lay awake through the twilight hours, cocooned in a tender embrace, listening to the breeze rattle the windowpanes and brush over the bristling straw-thatched roof of our delightful cottage.
Still I cast my weary mind over the long-dead past and can recall with affectionate remembrance the slow roll of our old sail boat, like a cradle, as we slept out on deck in the palmy summer night, moored in an idyllic harbour town on the coast of a sublime Greek isle. I remember the goosebumps on her smooth, soft skin as we lay cloud busting by our lily-covered English pond, or on a white sand beach in the exotic and wild corners of the world we explored together; deeming ourselves wanderers of the earth – neither lost nor found, never home nor abroad – for all the lands of this strange planet were our oyster, ripe for discovery, or so we imagined.
I remember rowing on a still lake with the snow-peaked mountains perfectly reflected in the water’s surface, like a shining, silvery mirror. Or walking barefoot on toasty golden sand dunes, with bright green reeds erupting occasionally from the ground in fabulous, flourishing flurries of colour and life. The snow-glazed fountains and statues of Europe – as we roamed that magnificent vista of high Culture and deep Enlightenment, of great Civilisation and profound Beauty – and upon parting ways at the coming of sleep, were reunited in our dreams and met once more on the shared planes of our subconscious.
I remember the musty, comforting smell of archaic churches and grand cathedrals in which we knelt – hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder – and earnestly prayed with devout sincerity for each other’s salvation.
“Most who dare to fall in love, end up grieved with bitterness and regret”, she whispered mournfully to me in the dark. “I hope that is not our fate. Yet even if it is to be so, I would rather love you – only to lose you and fall thence into an endless well of despair for eternity – than never have loved you at all; never known the sweetness of your kiss, the touch of your tongue, the taste of your lips, the warmth of your gaze, the tenderness and passion of your embrace, the caress of your fingers, the heavenly pleasure of your love.” No tears were in her eyes, nor sorrow burrowed and furrowed in her gaze; only peace, benevolence, and grace, of a kind so holy it almost shames one to look upon it.
Short Story by Stamos Mardou