“The sky is your canvas”, the book to all ailments said, “there is a joy in filling it up with life.” But as I finished my 157th sketch, as I finished my 300th one, as I finished the one with no count attached (the one I called “the limits that were stronger than me”), as I write over all that I had drawn, as the clouds dragged themselves painfully crawling to some better place, like everything else in my life the sky remained unchanged.
And when I lost my hands to fate, to slow corrosion, to the burden of creation, to the lady in white who couldn’t even lie that “it won’t hurt”, to the painful work of making up things that I want, things that would want me back, or at least won’t walk out, to the hunch that said something is seriously wrong with the kind of life I have.
I wished for the man in the sky to wake up and get to work, to make me some rain, to drop an ocean of crystal on this world, to paint a heaven on this cheap sky of this miserable man.
Because trying on some days, on most days now, feels like living against the wishes of the world. I can’t help but break a bit, cry a bit even when things are right, because they right only because of my efforts. Can you give me something that I don’t have to work hard for, something that was made for me, something that I can keep. A thing, a person, a sign that I can hold in my hand that tells me that you want me to be happy, that you want me to smile, that I am not abandoned after all.
His face lit up with the death of every colorful explosion in the sky. He hates this sky on other days (among other things). Today he loves it, this darkness, this crowd, even me. (Maybe not me, but it doesn’t mean anything to me now. But in moments like this I am reminded of the “me” who would have wanted his love or at least be part of the world that can be loved. The ‘past me’ shakes off my hand and stands there looking at him as if he is her sky, but only finds the signs of deaths that have nothing spectacular about them. I stand there looking at my sadness, his sadness breathing the air and living some sort of life for once.) He stands there looking at the sky through my silence, through my awe, awe at his simple happiness. (How long has it been since he has loved anything with his breaking heart.) He stands there looking at the sky even when curtain of stars resurface, even when the screams of children dissolve. He stands there abandoned by the world and yet happy. (I stand there abandoned by him, by myself and yet happy)
i looked best dressed in incoherent words. everyone assumed that i am drunk on something. everyone assumed me to be an artist for that.
any word that left my mouth was just another way to pronounce self-doubt. the only way to stay and run away at the same time.
the way i speak, “you are beautiful” and “i hate you” sounds the same. the way i speak “i want to die” sounds same as “i love you”. my name sounds same as any other name.
what is the use of having this name that no one calls. so i sign the heart of my temporary admirer with “tear”, “snow”, “goodbye”, “sleep”…. with other sad beautiful words that cause less hurt than my name.
Hand me back my fear. Remove all signs of caution. Anyway, I am dying slowly. I don’t want to know more. I don’t want to know better. Come into my mind. Here there is no better. There are only picture frames that do not break even when they have lost the images they lived for. It is not the persisting lack in me that makes me feel hollow. It is the life remaining in my dying organs, all the reasons that I have for living, my willingness to invent a reason if needed. All the substance that hides my lacking highlights the vacancy in me.