Aline painting Verso based on her memories of him makes me very sad, because⌠when we read her journal, she isnât remembering him as a grown man, she is thinking about him as a kid. And thereâs nothing wrong with it, she is his mother, of course heâs going to always be her little boy â even if he is twenty-six and way taller than her and has a beard.
But then she takes these memories and Paints him into the Canvas. And we have a grown man who has these⌠child-like traits at his core. Brightness. Silliness, sometimes. Openness to the wonders of this world. Love for âadventuresâ. Less amount of, you know, depression of the original. And again, nothing inherently wrong with it. He is just the perfect son for her â all grown-up, but still her kid as she remembers him.
But then the Fracture happens. And the 67 years of blood and death and sorrow and pain and loneliness. And it would make you grow up, wouldnât it? It would smother the openness, it would make you bitter, it would murder your inner child and disintegrate the corpse. It would make you build walls, and grow thick skin, and do everything to stop feeling so it doesnât hurt so much. But can you really do it when youâre painted as that bright child your mother remembers? When the child-like features and openness are literally the very base of your being?
And so we have our Verso, almost-a-hundred-years-old Verso, stuck with it. The feelings are still there. The walls break from the softest gust of wind. You see the death of Expedition after Expedition after Expedition, and it doesnât hurt less. Every time feels like the first time. You can learn to mask it, sure, but under the mask every wound and every loss feels fresh as if experienced by a child who never knew grief â because, in a sense, it is.
And you crave love â god, do you crave love. Because, in your motherâs eyes, you were her little boy who needed her, and she painted it into you as well. She probably didnât mean to, it probably wasnât a conscious choice, none of it was â but it hurts nonetheless. And it doesnât go away. Nothing does. Nothing ever will. And you canât protect yourself from it, because under all the masks you are still you â still the son your mother painted you to be. And you canât end it, because she loves you too much. And she isnât even your mother. And she doesnât even love you.
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