Caravaggio

Even Caravaggio fled in the end.
Haunted always by his demons of temper, drink and love, he fled the corridors of his own creativity. Forced into an exile of his own choosing, he thought he would eventually feel peace. Floating one day down a river, he asked himself, who am I in retreat from?
At first he said his creditors, then he said the guardians of the peace, but he had to admit it was from himself. He, who turned the world again by brush and paint, turning enemies into lovers, and lovers who betrayed became dead lovers. Why should he justify his actions? He, so childlike in his assumptions, easily denying responsibility, so when he asked himself how does the child fare, he smiles his mysterious smile and retorts “the flying book lands where it is taken by the wind”.
Caravaggio is bent double in the boat, he is hiding, he is laughing, he is a conundrum of infinite possibilities, and he will always give you colour, bestiality and build a reliquary from a yellow umbrella.
The tree canopy along the river bank is turning from green to withering bronze, marooned by the waters of time, trees full of wisdom: they know the winking stars hold no price and cannot be copied.
Caravaggio, emerging sleepy eyed, bearded and with a feather in his teeth, cannot help but feel optimistic, gleeful even. All things bring him love.

The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Anne Rule