The Night, though at times she seems magnificent, tonight she only seemed to exacerbate feelings of loneliness that dwells inside me. Every time she does, I would always fall into a contemplative or a melancholic mood and my mind would go soaring above my body, going into places that I have never seen nor heard before. Normally, it would be a time of inspiration, a time for contemplative writing if you will. But tonight, is not normal. Tonight, I experienced these tiny tuggings at my heart. As was the night before. And the night before it. And before it. It goes on and on. Is it Loneliness? I have to think so, as Life is no longer the same as it was. No longer a sepia landscape, nor a black and white. This reminds me of a story told to me long ago, and perhaps I might interest my reader in it? As I sipped my cup of coffee, I will tell you the story of The Tabulands.
In New Orleans, why New Orleans, don’t bother asking me. For it had happened right there. And this story was narrated to me by my grandfather, who heard it from his great-grandfather, who heard it from his great-great-grandfather, who heard it from his…you get the idea. Anyway, New Orleans was always a dreary place, not unlike England, where the weather was always gloomy. The best weather you could find probably went like this: drizzling in the morning, showers in the late afternoons. The worst could go like: Heavy showers forecasted throughout the day. Well, there are sunny days no doubt. But that was quite rare.
To go on, there lived this painter in one of those Gothic houses. No no, not those Gothic punks, but the Gothic of the Romantic Age. This house was simply outlandish and amazing to look at. From the outside, it looked like a mini-castle. Replete with a splendous garden, an Olympic-sized pool and a small pavilion. Once you were inside, the first floor would be enought to sweep your feet off the ground. That is, if you managed to stand up once you were in it in the first place. At one glance, you would be able to see the whole collection of paintings that they had, all hung around the hall, with some even leading up the winding stairs. The paintings themselves were ghastly to look at, either with some grotesque figures or demonic artwork in them. To the neighbours, it felt as though they had their very own Osbournes in the neighbourhood. Only weirder. Sometimes, these paintings would look as though they were alive, for they seem to move when you stare hard enough at them. But then, you would think that it’s the flickering candles on the great chandelier of gold hanging above the hall. You would just think that the light is playing a trick on you.
However, not all paintings were as grotesque. There were some Romantic-esque artwork, numbering to less than five. It seemed perfectly logical now, but then, well who would have thought of it? These four paintings were of some landscape in some country I supposed, for the features were none that artwork collectors could identify. Nor guess the age. Many aspiring collectors had came to lay their hands on them, but money was never a problem. For this story, the first three landscape portraits are not of significance, but the last one is.
The last one, hanging by the wall beside the edge of the glided stairs, was a picture of bleakness. From afar, it looked like a tundra, but when one stepped in for a closer look, you could hear the amazement, ” My god, I had thought that it was a picture of the famed tundra in the Northeast. But now, I see it as something else. It’s so..there’s no mot juste for it.” Even they were at a loss for words, for everyone claimed to see different things in there. Sometimes a couple standing by the sea, sometimes the bright beams of sunlight striking out from the cover of dark clouds, or even sometimes it seemed like a writhing pool of naked bodies. As to how the painter managed to accomplish that, no one had a clue.
Ah, I see that it is getting late. For the sun is rising over the horizon and in a few minutes time, the hustle bustle will begin all over again. And before it does, I have to turn in, safe and secure in my own foothold. Where no one may come and intrude upon my peace.
You wish for me to continue? Ah my reader, if I could I would. But alas, time is growing short. Now that’s an oft-repeated phrase. And I don’t think you would want to hear it too many times don’t you? Retire as well reader, you need the rest. Mayhap I will continue the story tomorrow. Meanwhile, au revoir.