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Literature Text
The Painter.
I look in the mirror and all I see is an emaciated, unnatural, ashen figure looking back.
Thin, wispy, orange hair decorates the crown of my head. I do not like it very much. It always reminds me of the fire in your eyes, even though I have been in darkness for months now.
"You did this to me"
Come now.
"Hush"
My gaunt fingers sooth my quivering, chapped lips. They brush my bony cheeks and my deepened sockets, these grey cavities bare my bulging eyes. I can count the cartilage rings of my trachea. My ribs made hollow shelves in my chest.
"They've become defined; you are bound to find them gorgeous."
My retracted stomach and my skeletal hips too.
From my protruding shoulders, dangle pathetic arms with white knuckles and mauve nails at their ends.
The whole of me, dressed in purple and blue skin. Just like you used to paint me, in bruises. Now, I paint myself for you have abandoned this project.
The blows to my head don't feel same.
Come back please.
I look in the mirror and all I see is an emaciated, unnatural, ashen figure looking back.
Thin, wispy, orange hair decorates the crown of my head. I do not like it very much. It always reminds me of the fire in your eyes, even though I have been in darkness for months now.
"You did this to me"
Come now.
"Hush"
My gaunt fingers sooth my quivering, chapped lips. They brush my bony cheeks and my deepened sockets, these grey cavities bare my bulging eyes. I can count the cartilage rings of my trachea. My ribs made hollow shelves in my chest.
"They've become defined; you are bound to find them gorgeous."
My retracted stomach and my skeletal hips too.
From my protruding shoulders, dangle pathetic arms with white knuckles and mauve nails at their ends.
The whole of me, dressed in purple and blue skin. Just like you used to paint me, in bruises. Now, I paint myself for you have abandoned this project.
The blows to my head don't feel same.
Come back please.
What defines a painter and the tools he uses?
Anything or anyone can be his canvas.
The result could be a visual delicacy or a mental feast.
Though not all of us get painted physically, emotionally we are abstract canvases of jargon. Littered playgrounds and drooling sewage reserves.
Oh yes, he paints me and I allow it.
What a pity he never appreciates his own masterpiece.
Anything or anyone can be his canvas.
The result could be a visual delicacy or a mental feast.
Though not all of us get painted physically, emotionally we are abstract canvases of jargon. Littered playgrounds and drooling sewage reserves.
Oh yes, he paints me and I allow it.
What a pity he never appreciates his own masterpiece.
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