I was seated on the shore of Lake Michigan, perched on a rock with the lapping water just a few feet away. There was little wind and so the waves crested only when reaching the shore and I had a gentle rhythm lulling me into thought. My mind wandered to Edvard Munch’s Melancholy and I felt myself there. Perched with head in hands, I longed to find something to focus on. The trees in the distance; a wavering, dusk-shrouded building in a far-off city further down the coast; the details of the rocks beneath my feet.
Like the man in the work, I shrugged and let slide the mantle of everyday appearances and allowed myself, if only temporarily, to bring the raw emotions to the fore. I was not sad but sober, not depressed but pensive. Ah, the Frieze of Life as Munch called his works. A Poem about Life, Love and Death. To think of such things in the autumn air and to close ones eyes and be the painting.
In time, I stood and moved along, continuing my slow amble, thoughts turning further in my head.