Dull are the days of spontaneous, Love
And dull are the days you tried
With a knife at your neck I’d leave you a lull
And you’d have pined it inside
Love is not even close to being the strongest emotion. There is no perpetuity in it; the crude adrenaline cocooned by the ‘butterflies’. It is like a cigarette; you always like the first one and then the rest is just a habit. There is always a set of rules that define such glory. I never understood it. I usually found romance in irony. It is good to be a little selfish sometimes. People rarely realise that it is easier and way more convenient to discover than to change. I never had a choice, hence I strangely felt blessed. Yet, I found it sadistically amusing to observe love always.
I had always been around artists. My incapability forced me to rely on pre-conceived notions of connoisseurs. I discovered that chaos is generally regarded superior. We have come to a world where people no longer are afraid of the unknown; instead the more confound the art is, the more it is appreciated. I could only justify it to myself after observing their struggle to explain their own work. There must be something so compelling in their heart which they could only portray using a canvas.
There is some chaos in everyone’s head. It is hard for them to overcome it. Genius is generally born when this chaos is given a slight direction. My heart said that I had in this case. I did beseech the stars to comply. I had hoped she’d come often, that she would finally figure out the ultimate dream.
I would go back there every second month. I knew she visited, but I made sure we don’t intersect. Every time a new canvas… every time a similar idea… but every time a different scenery… There were houses, there was snow, sometimes flowers or vast stretches of just trees but never were there any people. It is so beautiful to see an artist suffer with the dilemma of the craving solitude and a need to share. I could never have been an artist. I however had started to respect one who could get over this dilemma that often transformed into pride; one who could accept that there is more than one pair of eyes in the society and it shouldn’t be an abomination to look into them.
It had been about eight months since she first stepped into the house. The window was still broken but now it just made it pleasant. I had a stack of questions whose answers I just wanted to hear despite having some idea. I finally decided to meet. I knew when she visited.
She was working on a new piece when I entered. Engrossed in the canvas with a pair of earphones on her. I was curious what she was listening to but my lust for perfection meant it was not a question I’d risk to be answered.
“Why are there no people?”
She did hear me and stopped painting, slowly putting the brush down. She turned to see me but did not seem startled by my arrival. She smiled and replied, “People believe that a painting is something that captures a beautiful moment or a fashion of emotions. I feel it is futile to capture something that shall seize the very next instant. Civilisation makes everything dynamic.”
“Then why keep houses?”
“The belief in romance of idealism”
“Don’t you think that’s unrealistic?”
“Shouldn’t hope always be?” She asked.
I smiled, “You seem to be enjoying this.”
“Oh! What can I do? Someone forced it upon me”
“Do you think I can keep that last one?”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say I am an ardent collector.”
She had anyway finished it. She allowed me to take it while I bid adieu.
“Thank you” she said while I left.
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