He  has always been searching and the people around him has always been suspicious about his motives and ideals. . .principles in life that has never and will never have a place in their minds. . .  minds so tightly closed like that of a vacuum, or a black hole maybe. . .where nothing exists. . .void. All he just wanted was to find that perfect subject and to capture all that beauty and the perfection of her total imperfection, for she is human after all. . .and that is the beauty of humanity. .imperfection. .for without blemishes they would not have the dire need for salvation, salvation into a more pure state. . .the state of perfection and glory. His leads had for long been thirsty of strokes, to capture the details of his subject's face, all the lines showing each and every moment of utmost joy of having kissed by the person she loves, and the dying sadness of losing that very person on a very tragic manner. His brushes had been dry for so long now. His paints cracked and dull. His heart cold, empty and dying. For the passion of his heart is art itself. He is his master piece. His life a comedy. . .or a tragedy maybe.  .yet all of that he can't see,  for the sole reason that he has already lost his sight for what is real, after all the years that he waited for that one true, perfect and beautiful subject. If he could only hold on to things that he will never have control of. . .to stop the hands of time from moving forward to eternity, freeze space from ever changing and decaying, even for just a single moment, just to have a better, clearer, more intimate angle of her ivory-like face. . .then maybe he'd gather all his leads and the purest of all his canvas of which he has set aside just for this very fleeting moment. One by one he would capture all the lines of her almost blushy face, all the curves and points, like that of valleys and hills, so perfectly and naturally fit together. . .eyes that would be like emeralds and lips like ruby, ever inviting yet so elusive. Oh how he would truly treasure such a rare, or impossible to be exact, a chance of a lifetime. If only, then he would find meaning to his existence, for being human, for being an artist. Only and after then, he would be ready to let loose his one and only passing life into the vastness of eternity. . .Remembered? I wouldn't say. Forgotten? Most likely. For them he was insignificant. His name will not be engraved into their hearts. His passion will flee their minds as fast as his life drowned into oblivion. He will not remain. He will be forgotten. Yet, he will rest. . . with that last and ever perfect face forever lingering in his weary and finite mind, with those last strokes smoothly traversing the roughness of his canvas. . .He will rest. .with that eternal smile on his dying, yet ever warm and passionate face. He will not fade. . .after all. . .