15/12/2023
My hand twitches for something. "Oh, how you have deprived me from sending the residue of your thoughts away!", it says. I have missed myself, as if I were a long gone beloved coming back after a year-long silence. Life is reduced to fifteen minutes of pure quiet.
It fills me with joy to sit like this, kissed by frost and slowly melting around the flames of something that I cannot yet name. I wish to know it. It would save me years of stumbling in the dark. Whenever it is present, I soak up its radiance and warmth to the bone, let it sear my flesh and boil my blood; sheepishly if not eagerly, as if afraid it would vanish the second I declare my own happiness to myself. Whenever it is absent, it fades from my memory like the gleam of a metal is obscured by the murky water of a pond. I forget I ever felt it, and I find myself in the middle of nowhere, listening for a foreign echo, as if it were never with me in the first place.
I would like to believe that "it" can be be contained in the simple word "art"; the undeserving vessel of soul's extract and fuel. Art must surely be a synonym for life. It cannot not be. How come not when the only time we wish to remain a little longer is the time we are audience to beauty? But then comes the question on beauty: Is all beauty art? Is it supposed to be? Or is my sense of beauty in particular distorted. There has to be a border of differentiation there; because while I can exist alongside beauty and manage to simply be in its presence, I am consumed by art. Art pierces me whole and erases my discomfort with my humanity, it makes me forget my every dispute with myself, and all that I can remember cannot go beyond the moment of being pinned down to feeling by art.
On another note, it would make sense for it to be art, because art is unreachable even if materialized. For example, sometimes I think that devout believers only love God because he is far; because they can love him and say they are loved by him from a distance. So, perhaps I ought to keep what is dear to me to me somewhere unattainable so that the magic may last, that I should never touch art so as to to always get to be drowned with awe and emotion when I am before it.
Unfortunately for my idealism, art isn't my god, neither is beauty, nor are my beloved. Even God is not my god. I feel no less joy or terror when I approach what I love. I don't wish to live an observer, as much as the fascination with the image of events rather than the events themselves may imply. Spreading paint feels as good as watching it dry, the smell of lead and pomegranate pink, watching the ocean dance feels as good as dancing within its waves, stingy salt, and admiring a smile feels as good as kissing it, something dry, something wet.
15/12/2024
How you never miss. Just you wait, just you wait.
Comments
Post a Comment