The silhouette Of Suspense and relinquishment.

 

The haranguing engulfment of sensitive intelligence, when under the defectively monomaniac occupation of perfunctory scrutiny, has at times induced a ludicrous hyperbole in the proportion of things. Even in aspect, the locomotive of rumination, cannot be delivered to the casual avenues of quintessence, without this volatile mechanism of the creative eye, inferring the straining inquisition of detail. It is not the crucifying villain of vulnerable enterprise, but rather the condition of taut tuning, that reverberates the subtle strums of emotion, into pervasive intrapersonal resonance. The claustrophobic coagulation of the neurons, and the profligatory debaucheries of anxiety, rendered into frequent intervals by the mere exposure of passive awareness. It is at times more unwholesome when the dissonance of the mind, becomes an unlicensed syntax of intruding anecdote, and that predominant chemistry, which yields artistic novelty, ravenously indulges in its superfluous deceptions. Even in the obsolete textures of the past, or the jesting ease of synovial rhetoric in the conscious of soliloquy, there is a seemingly indelible signature to be adopted, and malignantly construed, without any audible cause. I remember, when I ensconced that noon, in my studio and requested my wife to join me. I would craft a portrait of her, before she would embark, on a journey to Munich. Sure enough, I was in the inception of the masterpiece, with a gorgeous light embalming her benign template with soft opulence, and I fancied that my resolve was invisible. There was a detail, in in the scheme of her countenance that I was remiss of, it was a faint scar in her brow. The painting had already proceeded beyond, an affordable apology but I kept my composure in my sleeves between each leisurely pause until the final stroke. We had a delicious lunch in celebration of the piece, and yet there was a lingering dread which arrested me, when regarding the painting. I remained reticent until further diagnosis, revealed any provenance, although this endeavor was to no avail. Eventually my wife Vera, had successfully alloted in Germany, and the ensuing days would be spent in utter solitude. My wife would not take the painting, but suggested that it be hung in our chamber, since it would only be a fortnight, before she returned. This was only the beginning of my horrors. I heard a voice, strange and insufferable,

"How could you forget the faint scar, is this woman even your wife Mr. Howard" It was in the night, that I heard this, and I could not sleep in this noetic tumult of lather. I kept hearing the voice, day after day, and its message was all the more hideous,

"Have you any right to say she is your wife? Are you truly a painter of fine acquisition in the prestige of endowment? Will you face the world with any pride now?" And I suffocated, frothed, and winced for any haze of quietude, but it only seemed to augment the haunter's ambition. Its proximity was nearing and one morning I heard a warm breath caress my neck, as I sat alone in my studio. I turned to behold it, and it was merely a silhouette, evincing my person in some ineffable manner

"Coward, you have lost your way and now you seek a haven in my bosom, begone!" I shrieked, and it receded into evanescence.