Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Paintings of Vulnerability

I paint.  It allows me to imagine a world that I dream of.  Imagining a life with a different design, ever changing rules settle in, whirling colors onto a canvas, watching them dance gracefully into a scheme, a rhythm that eventually seems to have a mind of its own and overtakes the stark white canvas.  My hopes are manifested through shapes, my ideals blurted out in the most provocative ways, symbolism is the cipher to this canvas, so that when I see it, well it may as well be a page out of my diary.  Paintings, letters I write through creative expression exposing my true dreams, secret sufferings, the endless desires of my soul.
I sat in front of the blank canvas late last night, it was as if it were taunting me.  I knew what I wanted to express with this new entry, but I didn't know what it looked like?  How does one paint love?  The feelings are so potent, overwhelming, powerful, it's almost like love is a person to me.  The mere presence is addicting, captivating, engaging.  When I don't have it, I feen for it.  The desire for connection surpasses all logic, we are blinded from our reason, deaf to the words of dead poets who tell the tales of falling in love and then falling when their love leaves, our naive stupidity takes over, just one taste of it and the wisest men throw their lifes work to the gutter and willingly shackle themselves to the concept. 
How does this look?  Slaves to it, even if just for one night, I have yet to meet someone that would turn it down.  That person doesn't exist, they would deny the fact that we are animals starving for affection.  Humans, we all need to be special, long to be adored, are blessed if we are cherished, and will die trying.  The divorce rates go up, but we still marry.  Romantics.  There's a word for us, hopeful to be the one to defy the odds and grasp the happily ever after fairytale. 
So what did I paint?  The images raced as quickly as they came they were dismissed, none possessed the passion that the emotion exudes. Lovers at sunset, floating hearts, chocolates, wine, candles, gowns and tuxedos, what picture belongs to love?  Perhaps love belongs to words.... " I love you the way certain dark things are loved, secretly between the shadow and the soul.  I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you." 
After finding love, you un-doubtingly are its slave.  I know it, I am a hopeless slave to it, I chained myself, enlisted my heart and I am paying the price.  He left. Not a day goes by I am not haunted by thought of your absence, wishing to turn back time, looking forward to sleep so I can see you because it is almost that I can control my dreams or maybe they control me? Either way I know I'll see you.  I don't love to profess it vainly to the world, to boast the conquering of your heart, to attempt to exploit the sacred connection we shared.  I love you selflessly, without the knowledge of how to contain it or put rules around it. There is no choice in it, it simply exists and no matter how many ways I attempt to cover it, alter its appearance, dull loves luminosity, I fail.  It's there, unchanging, it cannot be destroyed, not through time or the missing of lovers, love is created and stands the tests we ask it to undergo. 
The taunting white canvas sits, waiting for my feeble attempts to paint my love.

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