Olivia


 * Salvador Dali**

(//Masculine fingers that show a hint of old age twirl course hair in an upward spiral. His mustache was in place, both sides pointing almost straight upward, urgently calling attention to his crazed eyes as if the very secret of life and death were swimming in them, screaming out at you. He looks in the mirror... his reflection returning his deranged stare. As he lowers his hands from molding his signature mustache, a look of deep, ponderous contemplation sweeps across his face, furrowing his brow.)//

The only difference between myself and a madman, is that I am not mad. I've told people this...but do they really understand the meaning, and why this is the case? If only I could truly be mad... that sweet insanity may just save me, could it? To be oblivious of reality...

(//The look of inquisitive thoughts that had previously defined the curves of his face suddenly vanished. His thick, black eyebrows mold into a downward slant that translates deep, grievous emotions. His eyes, that had just a moment earlier been filled with self-centered contemplation, are now welling with steaming tears, almost immediately overflowing. In this excruciating mental pain, Dali loses the will to stand, collapsing on the cold, unwelcoming tile of his bathroom floor. His back is rested against the bathroom wall, being forced into an awkward position. His arms lay limply on the hard floor, shaking with his shoulders as he wretchedly weeps. His face now looks severely disfigured in his uncontrolable crying. Between heaves of breath and hot tears running down his already red, feverish face, he begins to mourn verbally, uttering the very thoughts that are ripping into his sanity.)//

Gala! ... Why did you leave me?! You were my very essence... my being. I am nothing. Gala... Am I to be limited to seeing your beautiful face and flawless anatomy only in the imperfections of my paintings?? I cannot live without you, Love! Your warmth no longer graces the earth. Not I, or any other man may ever look upon you, touch you, show love to you... ever again. Gala, I would give my own life for you to live once more... even in the hands of another man. Darling, you were mine, but for you to be here now, I would give everything, my paintings... for, everything is nothing without you.

//(He attempts to calm himself, whimpers escaping his dry, swollen lips every few seconds between heaving, uneven breaths. His puffed, reddened eyes stare blankly at the floor. A single sudden breath, and he has calmed. He cannot focus on one thought. When the glint of any sort of idea or thought or feeling appears in his worn mind, it vanishes. This sensation, not one of a necessarily calm nature, seizes Dali... he is numb. As he cannot think, feel, or percieve, his still swollen eyes become too much of a burden. Try as he might, he cannot stay awake. His head falls with great weight, his chin nearly to his chest—peace comes with sleep. His face, finally relaxed. His eyebrows no longer are showing anguish. His body, no longer tense, sits rather limply. Silence. His eyebrows move slightly before completely reverting to their once troubled look. Dali tosses his head to the left, still sleeping, but with a disturbed look on his face. Underneath his wrinkled eyelids, his eyes dart in many directions. He wakes with a slight scream. A few short moments pass before he regains himself.)//

Can I not find refuge even in my dreams? Must they always be so terrifying? Gala, I dreamt of you. You were posing for me... each beautiful curve and corner of your body lying before me. I held my paint brush in my hand, and a canvas stood before me. But darling, as I painted, you grew older. Your hair grew thin and gray, your youthful face wilted, the glow in your eyes faded, and your smile vanished. Then... (//choking back tears, he continues//) Then, Gala, you turned to dust. How I miss you.

//(A minute later, he quickly regained his sanity. Dali closes his eyes solemnly. He leans forward reaching for the sink to aid him in standing. His old, worn body aches in defiance as he stands. He is weak... his legs tremble and his head feels light. Leaning on the sink for support, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror once again, and he quickly turns his face away. )//

I am nothing. With you, I was complete. I could go with confidence before others, I kept my head held high. I was the one and only Salvador Dali. I was whole. But now, look at me... look at me! I am nothing more than a weak, sobbing fool... a broken old man who has lost the thing dearest to him... I've lost you, Gala.