Lost at sea in a storm that ceases not, I wander most aimlessly without a compass, without a map. My desire to live a simple but enriched and purposeful life is halted by a bewitching feeling of worry and trepidation for the 'morrow. Quoting Neuroticism, Death is welcome if it is where one will find a remedy for this horrid state of mind, and if it is what will lift one's heavy heart from the bottomless well of despair.
The longing to paint and write and commit my gifts and services to the Higher Calling is terribly unrelenting. I am the ruckenfigur in my own Friedrich. Gone amiss, this mind travels to places her physical being is unable to go.
Appearing still, Friedrich's figure, his ruckenfigur, moves across the span of centuries and becomes a presence that hands viewers an awareness of life that they cannot grasp otherwise. His ability to capture isolation in the midst of contemplation is surely the essence of Romanticism. The slap of the cold wind burns thy cheek, and the flight of dusty air tickles dry thy throat.
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