The Incredulity of Saint Thomas by Caravaggio

Today my heart became a void again for the third time, in my life. There’s a beauty in suffering. In what that Lacan guy called, ‘Objet petite a’ i.e., “an attainable object of desire”. It’s delusional, it’s a fake promise and a smile.

It’s something that you keep telling yourself, over and over again i.e., that it might just be attainable. But what happens in the end? You pour yourself out until the bottle of the unattainable empties you. And let me tell you, emptiness is a funny thing.

Very funny actually. Not that you just realize you dipped your toes into the mud, but also that the lotus belongs where it does.

Unrequited love is a self-assigned contract. You sign yourself into the uncertainty because you want to give yourself an oblivious certainty. An oblivious certainty that is love. Perhaps one of the most profound intoxicating immersion ever.

They say that you become sort of an artist when you’re heartbroken. I don’t know if that’s completely true, but I know that it is part of that contract.

An artist is the only one that can find solace in uncertainty, as the emptiness weeps tears of craft. A carefully, much detailed piece of possession. Memories.

Dali painted the persistence of memory, and I like that it’s lucidity presents or puts forth the certainty of dreaming. Dreams and fantasy are so immersive that it keeps the lover locked into a well, a well full of wine.

And that Wine I sip while I smile, and say goodbye.


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