It was my first girlfriend in college who taught me what I needed to know about growing up, or rather, what I thought I needed to learn. She taught me how to dance, how to fly an airplane, how to paint a beautiful scene, and how to kiss tenderly. She taught me my Mathematics and my English. She taught me how to do origami, how to play the piano, how to write a simple essay, and how to swim. She taught me a lot about life and love, I guess. But just when I thought about it, everything started to crumble in front of me. Then there I was, as far as I remembered, quite alone in my room in front of the mirror, crying my very heart out because she had left me.
It was then because of her that I realize I was still a kid and had much to learn. Probably because when I grasped the truth in my hand, I cannot stand to be alone. There is something about the people, who taught us things ‘we thought to be everything’ that keeps us always drawn towards them –either a disguise of love or a form of gratitude –I didn’t know yet really. And when they’re gone, we are left in bitterness. How miserable things seem to be. And how vague and clouded, the future seems to be.
Couple of days after she left, I was in my room arranging the broken memories, tending the wounds and overcoming the pain, trying to be a man. I scanned the lines of pictures we had at the top of my desk and moved them all to the side drawer. Somehow, when I touched our collection of paintings –most includes our naked paintings and poses for each other –a slit of scorching pain and cold fist was piercing my heart. Then I realized that these things could greatly hinder me from letting go. I should fix myself and my life once again. Though thinking, maybe there wasn’t anything left to be called ‘self’’ anymore. All that I am is hers. And this is where the suffering comes from; when all who we are depends on all things that we love.
How can I accept this truth or end this suffering? How can I move on and live again? These questions left me reflecting for two days and a half, which made me forget the world. I thought, these questions needed some answers in order for my life to get a fix. Like a focal point; a starting point.
Wandering aroung the corners of my dimlit room, I took the remaining cloth we used to make our own canvass, placed it wide at the floor, and lay there, naked for a long moment. Then as I flinched, I felt a feeble chilling at my head and my body. A drumroll in my heart.
I wrapped myself on the material and caught a glance at all the remaining pints of colorful paints, she had kept hidden underneath my bed. I grabbed them one by one and poured them on my body. It flowed through my now soaked self, and dampened the stuff in strong abstract art. I openned my arms and played with the condensed paint, outbursting all my emotions, like a baby in his first time at the bath. The windows are filled with shots of blue, red, and purple colors, and the room is tinted with an ethereal clasping of anger and sorrow swimming on an ever flowing river of multicolored insignia.
You might think that this is a beautiful riot, a type of an extensive art, or a manifestation of insanity. Either way I didn’t care, lest you do, as beauty for me has no formal clarity or sharpness in this life. Let’s try to look beyond beauty then for now, and let’s think about the truth, past away the starry window, the painted glass, and the mastered canvass.
In the silence of a tired heart and dirtied body are tears formed out of thirst, and out of longing for a meaningful, but not necessarily, a beautiful life.
Image from: http://guszti132.deviantart.com/
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