Enlightenment

I went in search of Enlightenment,
and found it under a Sakura tree.

And all the mysteries of the universe
revealed themselves to me.

Unfortunately, I cannot tell
those secrets revealed to me.

But I'll keep them close and keep them safe,
right here, under this Sakura tree.

The Angel of Resurrection

She had,
The most beautiful of wings.

But,
They were stolen away.

It mattered not,
For they grew back in time.

And she instilled fear in her enemies
By tearing open the sky to reveal them.

Author’s Note: The image is of the Monteverde Angel sculpture.

A Masterpiece

Beth Ezel, a senior art major, is struggling to create the perfect piece for her final art portfolio due at the end of the semester. Dr. Foster, a retired professional painter, is overbearing and extremely critical of his students’ works, constantly berating them for their mediocre talent.

“None of you will ever be as good as me.” He repeats for the thousandth time that semester.

The harsh criticism is taking its toll on Beth's mental and emotional health. Her self-esteem is shot, motivation is dwindling, and she as lost confidence in her artistic ability.

If she, or anyone else in the class, couldn’t come up with a mind blowing piece of art, then there was no hope or chance of passing Dr. Foster’s class. Thus, delaying her graduation and possibly everyone else.

Over the course of a few days, Beth's determination becomes obsession. She forgoes sleep, eating, bathing, and socializing in order to make use of all of her time. Beth's desperate mother begs her daughter to seek help from a therapist.

Beth scoffs at the suggestion. She didn't need help; she needed to churn out a masterpiece. Going to therapy would have taken up too much time. Time was something that Beth couldn't afford to waste.

My mother doesn't understand what this means to me! Beth scrawls furiously in her journal. She doesn't know how much pressure is weighing down on me. 

A thunderstorm of stress and anxiety looms over the emotionally distant female. Beth slowly loses her grip on reality. Delusions cause Beth to begin to think her art peers are plotting to sabotage her chances at success.

Out of nowhere Beth completely snaps in the middle of studio one day. “I know you’re all plotting against me, but none of you will ever stop me. I will succeed. You won’t get the best of me. I’ve already thought up everything.”

The spontaneous outburst is the last straw. Beth is refrained from attending classes until a psychologist declares her mentally and emotionally stable.

They thought it would help Beth get better, but it only made her worse. Even if it killed her, Beth was going to create the best damn masterpiece Dr. Foster ever laid his eyes on. No longer would he berate Beth's artistic skill.

The night before her final portfolio is due, Beth sneaks into the art building and completely loses herself in her work. For hours, Beth slaves, tossing aside countless canvases and using as many art mediums she could get her hands on. None of it was enough.

Exhaustion becomes to strong for her to resist any longer and Beth collapses to the floor in a heap. She cries.

Those cries of pain and sadness turn into screams of rage and frustration. Unable to control her bottled emotions any longer, Beth tears the entire room apart.

"Stupid! Stupid! Mediocre! Mediocre! That is the definition of Beth Ezel! MEDIOCRE!" She says, slamming an easel to the ground.

Amidst her roid rage through the art studio, Beth cuts herself on one of the metal art utensils. The blood drips onto a canvas by her foot.

She slips on the bodily fluid and accidentally smudges it. Beth regains her footing and looks down at the beginning of something new. Looking at the cut in her hand, she smiles deviously.

The key to a killer masterpiece: blood.

Beth takes the biggest canvas and smears its surface in her blood. With every stroke she gets closer and closer to finishing her masterpiece. Her body screams in agony for her to stop, but there is no rest with only three hours left until dawn.

There is only the glory that awaits her with the completion of her new art. Time continues to tick away and so does Beth Ezel's life.

Dawn finally breaks as Beth adds the final touches on her last painting. She laughs and screams. "It's perfect. IT'S PERFECT!" She yells in a fit of madness.

The hour hand strikes six. One second Beth is overcome with ecstasy. The next second, she’s dead. Her cold and lifeless body collapses beneath her painting.

A week later, word gets around about Beth’s tragic death. The blood loss didn't kill her, or the the madness. The poor young woman's heart gave out. Beth Ezel's hunger to succeed killed her in the end.

And what happens to Beth's painting?

Mr. Foster praises it like Beth had anticipated. He praised it so much that he didn’t even acknowledge the young art major’s sacrifice to create it.

Even as they wheeled her dead body from the art studio, Mr. Foster simply stood awestruck in front of Beth’s work unbeknownst to him that it was his overcritical personality and arrogant attitude that drove Beth to the brink of madness.

In his eyes, Beth is a martyr for her art.

Mr. Foster loved Beth's work so much that he took it upon himself to keep her painting, which he titled "Martyr XXX," in his personal gallery at home.

"You've out done yourself, Beth. You all have. Now your work will live on forever...in my gallery." He says placing Beth's piece among the wall of artwork from his previous students.

Students who gave their lives, just like Beth, to create Mr. Foster the perfect masterpiece.

Daisy's Lament

There is a dream sleeping
somewhere in the depths
of an ever blue ocean.
I believe it belongs to Gatsby.

It will never again see the surface.
It was his precious dream.
James Gatz.
The Jay Gatsby.

During the time
when he was still alive,
he loved a woman.
It was me. Daisy B.

He loved me the way
all girls desired to be loved,
like the Shepherd so loved
the Nymph who didn’t love him.

I was his Nymph.
Beautiful and carefree,
but he could not have me.
Would never have me.
I’m sure we were, by fate
of the cruel Stars, meant to be
together. Yet our love, from
the start, was a tragedy.

It was for one of us, who
would meet an abrupt end.
Gatsby’s love nor wealth
Could buy back my love or our time.

I, his Nymph, spurned he,
the Shepherd, for a Duke’s son.
I desired wealth and status, even
at the cost of my own happiness.

But the man I married
could not love me.
Would never love me
like Gatsby always did.

In our forgotten youth,
Our love was so wild.
We were crazy for one another.
I was crazy for him.

But he could not
give me the comfort
of life so desired by
a woman of status.

I could no longer love him,
of that I am certain, but
I knew he still loved me
despite my betrayal.

I know he still loves me,
even in death. What man
would not give his own life
for the woman he loved?

I didn’t deserve his love
or his admiration. On the day
of his death, I fled far away
and continue to live on.

I could not, however, escape
the disapproving eyes of
Dr. T.J. Ekcleburg, who
looked down upon the Valley.

He knew my secret, my evil.
And although I had left East Egg,
many a years ago, my heinous
crime continued to follow me.

As did my guilt
over Gatsby’s early demise.
His blood as well as Myrtle’s
stained my hands permanently.

No matter how times I washed
and scrubbed till my skin
became raw and irritated,
their blood was always there.

I could not find comfort
in the arms of an unfaithful
and heartless husband, nor
in the innocence of my child.

At various intervals in time,
I thought about returning to
East Egg. I wanted to be
forgiven for my sins.

I returned twenty-one years later,
to the grave of the man I loved,
weeping and sobbing
with agony pinned to my heart.

Unfortunately,
it is too late.
He cannot sooth me
nor offer me his embrace.

Although he loved me
in this current life; he
cannot carry his love for me
into his next life.

The suffering I caused,
has come with dire consequence.
He no longer loves me even
though I now love him.

The green light on my pier
flickers across the bay. It
burns brightly before
shattering into many pieces.

Forever gone.
Much like his love for me.

Gatsby's Dream

Somewhere,
drowning in the endless
expanse of ocean and time
there is a dream.

It will never again see the surface.
That dream was my dream.
Jay Gatsby.
The Great Gatsby.

In my time,
when I was still alive,
I loved a woman
and she loved me.

I loved her the way
misers love gold,
like nymphs to the Spring.
She was my Flower.

Delicate. Beautiful.
A smile like no other,
but I could not have her.
I would never have her.

By the hands of the Stars,
we were meant to be lovers.
But those same Stars cursed us
and we were doomed to tragedy.

One of us at least.
All of my love and
all of my wealth and riches
could not buy her love.

My treasured flower
fell into the arms of another
who did not, could not,
love her.

Like I do. Like I did in life.
Love is so short.
Forgetting is so long.
I am dead, but I cannot forget.

Our young love was like the Spring.
Now, it is an endless Winter.
She no longer loved me, of that
I am certain, but I still loved her.

I still love her.
A man will give his life
for his love. I did. I gave everything.
Including my own life.

On that day,
standing over my own corpse
submerged beneath the pool's surface.
The green light flickered.

Old Man Death stood there
in the image of Dr. T.J. Ekcleburg,
cackling like a mad man.
He found humor in my fate.

Death smelled of Cognac and carbolic
and smoked the finest cigar.
In my ear, He whispered,
"You could not have her in the end."

Seven years after my death,
I still waited behind, here,
this place that caused me
pleasure and grief.

I found myself asking
time and time and time again,
"Ah, is that you visiting
at my grave?"

It was never her.
My Flower wilted away
and made her home
in another place.

She no longer loves me,
of that I'm certain, but
I still love her.
I will always love her.

Belittle me if you want!
My love for her is
my tragic flaw,
of this I know.

Twenty-one years after my death,
my Flower has come to my grave,
weeping and sobbing,
with pain in her heart.

I cannot soothe her
nor offer her my embrace.
Unfortunately,
It is too late.

My Flower has come to this place,
to my grave, too late. My memory
is fading away. I will be no more.
Anymore.

And although I loved her
in this past life; I cannot
carry my love for her
into my next life.

I cannot bear the suffering
she caused me.
I no longer love her,
but she loves me now.

At the end of the pier,
across the bay, the green light
flickers. It grows brighter
and shatters into a thousand pieces.

Forever extinguished.
Much like my love for Daisy.