12 lines distinctly etched on a beautiful canvas of beige. I never did understand art. They say that behind every stroke there’s a story, just like writers, artists tell us vivid tales through their art. Every line, every shade tells of some personal thought. They imprint their mind onto the canvas for the world to behold, for the world to take a dive into their innermost thoughts hidden behind the perfectly crafted masterpiece which few can comprehend. Tell me, do you ever produce anything that is so personal that holds so deep a meaning to yourself that you are afraid to let the world know? We all have those, don’t we? Sometimes, however, we open those locked doors. She did too. Beauty, as it was, one that I could not decipher. The mystery that enshrined it made it all that more beautiful. She had let me in, but I felt helpless to her essence, her exuberant radiance. She didn’t consider herself someone very special. She wouldn’t call herself the most beautiful person, nor would she even think of herself as someone remotely relevant or worth someone else’s time, for that matter. When you appreciate someone, they smile back, they get warm inside, and maybe they’d even return a word or two. She wasn’t like that. She would be taken aback when hit with kind words, as if she was shrouded by disbelief to your sugary words. Maybe she wasn’t used to them.
12 lines distinctly etched on a beautiful canvas of beige. Each line tells of a different tale, a tale that she would rather forget but they wouldn’t let her. One line for every time mum and dad had fought. One line for that nights when she felt helpless to it all; when she sat in the corner of her room, teary eyed, not knowing what to do. One line for the empty childhood, no not a bad one, just… an empty one. And nine other lines, each of the tears that remain a mystery to me. Is it the mystery that enshrines those lines that make her mind so beautiful? Is it the puzzle that it poses to me that pulls me in day in and day out to understand her better, to stay by her? I don’t know….
12 lines distinctly etched on a beautiful canvas of beige. Each line that was once red, but now, the colour has faded away. I never did understand art, I never understood what artists try to portray. I never quite figured out what ails them or what depravity they face. I wish I did, maybe that way I’d understand her better. But even with my minimalistic understanding of art, one thing that I knew for sure was that she was the most beautiful work of art that I had ever laid my eyes on. But I don’t understand her. I guess I’ll never understand art. 12 lines distinctly etched on a beautiful canvas of beige, now faded into the beige that it was carved upon.
12 lines distinctly etched on a beautiful canvas of beige. Each line tells of a different tale, a tale that she would rather forget but they wouldn’t let her. One line for every time mum and dad had fought. One line for that nights when she felt helpless to it all; when she sat in the corner of her room, teary eyed, not knowing what to do. One line for the empty childhood, no not a bad one, just… an empty one. And nine other lines, each of the tears that remain a mystery to me. Is it the mystery that enshrines those lines that make her mind so beautiful? Is it the puzzle that it poses to me that pulls me in day in and day out to understand her better, to stay by her? I don’t know….
12 lines distinctly etched on a beautiful canvas of beige. Each line that was once red, but now, the colour has faded away. I never did understand art, I never understood what artists try to portray. I never quite figured out what ails them or what depravity they face. I wish I did, maybe that way I’d understand her better. But even with my minimalistic understanding of art, one thing that I knew for sure was that she was the most beautiful work of art that I had ever laid my eyes on. But I don’t understand her. I guess I’ll never understand art. 12 lines distinctly etched on a beautiful canvas of beige, now faded into the beige that it was carved upon.
No comments:
Post a Comment