Untitled

There is a painting that haunts me. The image of a king without a kingdom, forever trapped between four walls and with piles of books towering around him. The image of a man sit in a study room with a book open on his lap, which he looks absently, with his heart somewhere else. By the look of resigned desperation on his face you'd say he is a peasant to whom life has not treated kindly; but the rich clothes he wears, even if untidy and wrinkled, the rings on his fingers, and even the uncouncious elegance of the way he holds his head with one hand tell you otherwise.

I can't remember the title of the painting nor the artist's name, but I can perfectly recall the exact position of the man, the shockingly detailed books around him and his expression. I don't know why this painting shocked me so much, but seeing it made me want to jump into it and shake that devastatingly silent sadness off the man, make him stand up from that baroque, wooden chair and see the world with his own eyes to light his heavy mood. Maybe because I'm also waiting for something to shake me awake and make me break this stillness of mine that makes me feel like a frozen picture.

"Dawn: When men of reason go to bed." - Ambrose Bierce