Images

Sharp images. I noticed some of them as I walked down the street to see if any object might arouse my curiosity, maybe a thought to salivate my thinking. Among the myriad of objects that I could have picked up—mainly they were of a more valuable use, such as a stool and a napkin—this sharp image, the image of a woman in a picture, seemed almost content. Isn’t it weird, that we love things that portray some sort of image, though it isn’t near the reality of the image; after all, images are merely stimuli and reflections of what the mind sees, or wants to see. On any note, this image was still very attractive to my mind. The woman wore a red dress, a sort of skirt-dress. It had spots of white with a strap, white, attached to the ends of the neckline part of the dress. She was sitting on a chair reading the newspaper to her husband. The place in which she read was a patio, a taste for virtu and art was among the objects in their home. She had red hair, curly red hair, which fell to her waist, holding her tightly as a lover gently accents her credulity. She was a thin woman. She had light and delicate hands, untainted, fortunately, from all the trappings of “womanhood” adornment. Her eyes were blue, filled with a sadness of transcendent joy. There was green grass, which meant that there was nothing dead in this image. (How could someone be so careless with a thing so beautiful? This is probably the joy of some man, or maybe a joy a woman wishes to be. Dropping a picture so aesthetic in nature, so admirable must be something hard.) Among the green grass and the antiquity of the objects—mainly vases and painting of Saint Barbara, from Sistine Madonna—there were other objects of admiration: a quaint house, servants filled with merriment in servitude, and above all, a book case in the next room; you could see it through the glass door which leads to the house. It looked like the wall was filled with collections of data and novels, books of innumerable genres. It is possible that the sight only spurned my imagination as to what they loved to read. They must have loved the life of deep contentment. Reading was the obvious curiosity I had, because the wife was reading to the husband at the patio. This picture, this image of life filled with contentment, with living life, was so precious to me when I found it. I left it. I had to. Someone else needs to feel this poignant feeling of content satiation.