He was, simultaneously, the impassioned happy man lying at the feet of his beloved and also the morose clown standing in the background of the picture. Being in love pitched him, moment by moment, between waves of ecstasy and misery. Like every other person, he believed his predicament was unique.
I am called, and I personify, the Improbability of Love. I was painted to celebrate the wild cascades of amour, the rollicking, bucking, breaking and transformative passion that inevitably gives way to miserable, constricting, overbearing disappointment. At first my master imbued every tiny brushstroke with unbound ardour, untrammelled desire and unquenchable lust. During the painting of the work he had to accept that his feelings were a mirage, a chimera in his mind. This is the great tragedy of love - even if you are lucky enough to stumble on it, it never lasts.
I understand I am not the one who can make your world ‘ grand’ Someone by whom you can stand I understand I understand that I am not a friend, Who can live in you for days on end I understand when you go around me That I am not the apple tree, That can make you pretty, Glad, happy and free I understand when I see my CV When I stare at my face in the sea, When I talk to the galaxy, That I am not the one in your fantasy I understand that I understand And it’s ok.