You’d let me dance on a grass blade and I will treat you with ripe mangoes. You’d let me bathe in an orange light on top of a sycamore tree and I will arouse the need of staying within you. You’d sing to a hummingbird to come and rest on my hand and I will remove the synonym of ‘burn’ from your name. You’d not instigate my fossil memories like winters and I will carry your mountains until the Autumn arrives. You’d touch my flesh with a light breeze and I will plant a bunch of Pansies after naming you Spring’s sister. When you shall love me and I shall add you as my ‘things to do’ in all the days to come in my life.
Remember we promised, we’d feel each other and you might burn my cheeks with too much tenderness. Remember we promised, We’d keep each other company and you might shine one more day while counting dying breaths.
O Dear Summer! Let’s meet over the hills. Let’s meet in the backyard. Let’s accept that we had been in cold for far too long. For, it’s time for some blushing warmth.
April, Do you sing any song or sonnet? Of voices of animals or non-living? For I’m tired of listening to the noise coming out of mouths trying to make sense of everything.
She is nothing. Nothing but a window to your relatability, ‘cause you know she leaves a part of herself, in your jacket’s pocket so you could keep your hands warm a little longer.
She likes living on the edge. A night with some satin dreams and a drunken Sunday debauchery dipped in the ink of suffocation fueling her desire to drown or stay afloat. It’s her ask that matters. Like, the one who truly knows Art has touched the highest level of ecstasy or have swam in the deepest oceans of melancholy believing no one could save them except maybe art, maybe her.
She is a girl that deserves Keanu Reeves of the world but gets caught up in her head after Jane Austen whispers to get Mr. Darcy tattooed on her collarbones and then make her wear buttoned-up, long checkered shirt and she closes herself like the last break-up no one wants to talk about.
She wishes to travel back to history so bad and become an inspiration or a revolution for Renoir’s ‘Impressionism’ or Gogh’s ‘Fauvism’ where the artist would run his free strokes and strong colors painting her aesthetic away.
Everything is a rhythmic downpour of poetry for her. Open trees passing by from a train window, pretty boxes of delivery, crunchy pages of diaries, an infant smiling, green eyes of strangers, tiniest grass sprouting in her cemented balcony, flowers on the sideways pouting and demanding her to be clicked. She listens to all. She looks a little too deeper in the eyes of her pet just to understand a world hidden beneath silent cries.
She can make friends in a blink of an eye but can’t handle the awkwardness of the first meetings, neither the discomfort of visible distance with her old people. So, she keeps jealousy in her side bag existent but unnoticeable and laughs louder just to prove how their silly jokes means world to her. And she holds hand just a bit tighter announcing to her body of the crime she’s about to commit in keeping the ones closer who are destined to leave.
In a world pressing to be unique she becomes relatable with every passing day. The more she understands herself the better she sees the human race. The unprocessed, patchy race whose thumbnails tell a different story than they actually are. In a world full of intellectuals, she keeps looking for people she can be silly with.
She dangles, in between a timid Kdrama girl and a badass one not fitting fully in either of the category well. In between, wanting to get on top of everything and losing interest in everything around sitting in front of a fading fireplace and singing ‘Somewhere over the rainbow’ in the faintest voice.
She wishes she could erase the problems of all When she can’t do much for her own.
She is nothing special. And if you will get to know you will see either she’s nothing or too special for the world.
Dreams doesn’t have to reside up in the clouds. It could be in smiles or pictures, in tinkling of wind chimes, or guffawing thresholds that announces the arrival of someone your eyes awaited this long.
And when the great souls die, they die of diminishing pride and a meek voice after being unheard for years. They die of missing days of splendor riding along with the wind on their best horses and the next moment of grief, by digging graves of their friend. They die of frustration, who once always held the steering wheel now sit at the backseat whose opinions do not matter anymore. They die thinking how sunsets are real and everything goes down because it’s a beautiful fantasy only at the peak of life. They die of unending winter every night and spring escaping from their clasp when the sun doesn’t shine the next day. The great souls die every day when their madness is killed or curbed with a ginger-lemon tea in hands and “washed-up artist” or “not good enough” stamp on foreheads. The world says “You are too much” but they remember what Nietzsche will say “There is always some madness in Love But there is also always some reason in madness.”
They die, while breathing, after losing their muse who guided them how to love and live this life.
I sit down to carve the most intricate lines my paper had ever felt. I follow and follow the long tunnels of my imagination where I have this artistic light locked in my fist yet I run as if it’s too far from my reach.
Every time I set my eyes on a yellow leaf, cerulean sky, or a half-baked moon, I hoard all aesthetic souvenirs and dump them in my side pocket only to rush back home and draw all I can through my pounding heart.
In a world full of despair, distress, and stone faces, I wish to reach hearts through art. I wish to capture unlimited sky on a tip of my pen that sends everyone home with each word they read. I wish to tell a lonesome canvas how it can attract the attention of million eyes by letting me in. I’d be proud if I could turn a war-leftover stained glass into an essential part of an incomplete sculpture. I wish I could mix colors in the pouring rain and with every droplet touching them, igniting the power of love instead of hatred. I wish to create a fine masterpiece persuading people to live and die only when they are granted a grave. Never before that.
But when I sit down to produce such a knockout craft, I fail. It feels it’s never enough. There is always something missing. A single piece hiding in the corner, smirking at my quarter-poems and smudged outlines. Probably one day when I am older and freer like a child I will cover the world in my canvases.
“When I am an old woman I shall let my art paint me through their mysterious strokes.”
Will talk When your mirror will hug the dusty fog, when the grief will not set with the Sun. when your moustache be grey and crescent under the eyes darker. When thirty trees will grow around you and you’ll be breathless running after the grandkids. When the golden brooch will kiss the dust more in the cupboard than on your suit. When not being loved enough will crush your dinner-dates. When birthdays be knife and birthday songs the passing clouds.
We’ll talk When you’ll be seventy. I’d love to know how the distance treated you. We will talk then, Did you live or just survived?
