The Error of Sadness
There were days when it would consume him. Swallowing his blissful imagination that took head of his hopes in one whole gulp. Timothy Argyle was having one of those days. Sadness that would not end and pursued him, letting him awake with that never parting sorrow, knowing the day ahead of him would continually keep him in the grasp of despair. Timothy did not want to feel this way, nor did he intend to feel pity for himself, knowing that if he were then it would surely eat him from the inside out.
Timothy journeyed looking for peace. After losing his one and only treasure, his bride Abigail he felt like his life could never be new. So he set on a voyage of discovery in search of something different, if not entirely unfamiliar, for change, for that is the one thing Timothy desperately needed. Today he had traveled east of Spain to Barcelona. He was discouraged often at the tourist destinations, fearing that so many traveling eyes may seek him out through his solitary posture, greeting them-selves to him through pleasantry when all he really sought was to be alone. He went despite off all this, for he had heard of a cathedral that was once abandoned being built once more by Antoni Guadi’s original designs. The thought of this gave him hope. The idea of an ambition took upon people who wanted to make something of legacy, a man’s work unfinished selfishly being completed by aficionados.
It hurt Timothy to see the cathedral Sagrada Familia, not because of its workmanship between old and new stone, or its towering height and beauty but because it was placed in a place of such crude humanity. Barely a metre away there stood a fast food restaurant and all around there was a city very much in contrast to the Sagrada Familia. Busy, uncaring, unforgiving, all but the paying tourist were unaware of its magnificent. Wishing for something else, in his mind he had envisioned it has a pedestal where onlookers would awe, always. And people did awe, but not enough Timothy felt, people should always be in awe at such great things.
He began to wonder across the puzzling streets, a labyrinth of culture sites and commercial shops, between an alleyway rested stalls selling cheeses and fresh fruits, a man playing a Spanish guitar strummed while his daughters danced to his song. Timothy wanted the moment to soak into him, a reminder to him that because he had long lost his will to love others are caring for each other daily, granting smiles and dancing all in the name of life and its possibilities.
He sunk through another corner street where a woman made of chicken wire and white painted leaves sat outside a shop, stationary the woman sat reading, her eyes never to read a word.
The alley opened up to a plaza, old breaks laid way round a fountain to the north, cafes were side to side with bars, people were falling into each other, on the tip of their tongues sounds of laughter.
Two prostitutes stood outside a double wooden door where inside they would take their customers, one was experienced, she looked like she had seen things not many else had. Timothy thought that she must healthier than the prostitutes in England, though he wasn’t prepared to ask. The other was a younger girl in her late teens, beautiful and long black hair. He was astounded that she could not just find a rich man to settle down with. He must have been looking for the older woman asked if he wanted company, embarrassed he said little and wandered off. He cautioned himself about getting lost in his thoughts, simultaneously being a bit jealous that the younger girl hadn’t approached him. He wasn’t that old, he thought.
He finally had the courage to lift his head, hoping no one had seen him talking to the lady of experience. Above him on a building was a street sign, Carrer Montcaga. It was very squeezed, and Timothy didn’t think that they would be much to see down this alley, until that is he came across a Picasso museum. He had not much love for art but looking at a picture he felt he could stare for an age with insightfulness yet not understand a thing. It was a past time worth living through.
Expecting to see abstract art and nothing more he learned the history of a man he only knew by name and by reputation. He walked up the curling stairs to the exhibition, walls of the man’s life was plastered across white boards with pictures of his life. Timothy never knew Picasso was so recent, that he had died so soon, more importantly he didn’t know that he was so naive. That was at least a new feeling for him. He walked through the rooms, trying to find his own path rather than those who led the way. Through a door there was a room that was full of dark paintings. ‘The Blue Period’, everything was so sad, so relatable to him. He looked at the strokes of Femme aux Bras Croises, it was a woman so full of gloom, staring into what could have been nothing. Timothy circled the room and hit occurred to him. Pablo Picasso must have seen depression as fear, for one has to face fear to overcome it, Picasso had painted his depression, these peoples angst to face depression. And Timothy was lifted from his own body, his spirit once again filled his veins and his heart. He was unsure if he would be without his sadness, but he knew he could live with it by knowing it was there. To paint it and let it come alive so he can live with it rather than the sadness living with him. He would himself consume the sadness.
Timothy left the museum and took a seat by the plaza, he had a larger that was exceptionally frothy, on the tip of his tongue, was a feeling of almost happiness.
Timothy journeyed looking for peace. After losing his one and only treasure, his bride Abigail he felt like his life could never be new. So he set on a voyage of discovery in search of something different, if not entirely unfamiliar, for change, for that is the one thing Timothy desperately needed. Today he had traveled east of Spain to Barcelona. He was discouraged often at the tourist destinations, fearing that so many traveling eyes may seek him out through his solitary posture, greeting them-selves to him through pleasantry when all he really sought was to be alone. He went despite off all this, for he had heard of a cathedral that was once abandoned being built once more by Antoni Guadi’s original designs. The thought of this gave him hope. The idea of an ambition took upon people who wanted to make something of legacy, a man’s work unfinished selfishly being completed by aficionados.
It hurt Timothy to see the cathedral Sagrada Familia, not because of its workmanship between old and new stone, or its towering height and beauty but because it was placed in a place of such crude humanity. Barely a metre away there stood a fast food restaurant and all around there was a city very much in contrast to the Sagrada Familia. Busy, uncaring, unforgiving, all but the paying tourist were unaware of its magnificent. Wishing for something else, in his mind he had envisioned it has a pedestal where onlookers would awe, always. And people did awe, but not enough Timothy felt, people should always be in awe at such great things.
He began to wonder across the puzzling streets, a labyrinth of culture sites and commercial shops, between an alleyway rested stalls selling cheeses and fresh fruits, a man playing a Spanish guitar strummed while his daughters danced to his song. Timothy wanted the moment to soak into him, a reminder to him that because he had long lost his will to love others are caring for each other daily, granting smiles and dancing all in the name of life and its possibilities.
He sunk through another corner street where a woman made of chicken wire and white painted leaves sat outside a shop, stationary the woman sat reading, her eyes never to read a word.
The alley opened up to a plaza, old breaks laid way round a fountain to the north, cafes were side to side with bars, people were falling into each other, on the tip of their tongues sounds of laughter.
Two prostitutes stood outside a double wooden door where inside they would take their customers, one was experienced, she looked like she had seen things not many else had. Timothy thought that she must healthier than the prostitutes in England, though he wasn’t prepared to ask. The other was a younger girl in her late teens, beautiful and long black hair. He was astounded that she could not just find a rich man to settle down with. He must have been looking for the older woman asked if he wanted company, embarrassed he said little and wandered off. He cautioned himself about getting lost in his thoughts, simultaneously being a bit jealous that the younger girl hadn’t approached him. He wasn’t that old, he thought.
He finally had the courage to lift his head, hoping no one had seen him talking to the lady of experience. Above him on a building was a street sign, Carrer Montcaga. It was very squeezed, and Timothy didn’t think that they would be much to see down this alley, until that is he came across a Picasso museum. He had not much love for art but looking at a picture he felt he could stare for an age with insightfulness yet not understand a thing. It was a past time worth living through.
Expecting to see abstract art and nothing more he learned the history of a man he only knew by name and by reputation. He walked up the curling stairs to the exhibition, walls of the man’s life was plastered across white boards with pictures of his life. Timothy never knew Picasso was so recent, that he had died so soon, more importantly he didn’t know that he was so naive. That was at least a new feeling for him. He walked through the rooms, trying to find his own path rather than those who led the way. Through a door there was a room that was full of dark paintings. ‘The Blue Period’, everything was so sad, so relatable to him. He looked at the strokes of Femme aux Bras Croises, it was a woman so full of gloom, staring into what could have been nothing. Timothy circled the room and hit occurred to him. Pablo Picasso must have seen depression as fear, for one has to face fear to overcome it, Picasso had painted his depression, these peoples angst to face depression. And Timothy was lifted from his own body, his spirit once again filled his veins and his heart. He was unsure if he would be without his sadness, but he knew he could live with it by knowing it was there. To paint it and let it come alive so he can live with it rather than the sadness living with him. He would himself consume the sadness.
Timothy left the museum and took a seat by the plaza, he had a larger that was exceptionally frothy, on the tip of his tongue, was a feeling of almost happiness.
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