Its blue beads
have rolling lights and dashing reflections. And at the circling end of 33 such
beads there are white threads hanging together. And I show them below the
lights to see them crystal shine like his face in blues and in bliss. From the
day it was presented by him it never lived a day without passing light.
I haven’t ever
noted this before. My words having a callous existence, leaving it like little
islands with trees full of meanings, flurrying its red, pink, white, black,
yellow, ripened and un-ripened cherries on heads leaning on its craggy trunk. I
have never thought myself as an artist, who can spun words so indifferently
that people’s brain can get shattered on my cob web. I have never thought my mouth was ever
lashing out a barrage of reactions, questions, misinterpretations, that it’s
difficult for others for they are getting away from their coziness castled out
of slanted truths.
They say you
cannot understand two people’s private emotions and sentiments. Because you don’t
truly belong to their space. And I never thought
myself as an artist who can understand and empathize with other’s emotions and react
to them in the most objective way possible. Even the most close ones, fallen prey
of my impolite silences.
A junkyard full
of deluded images of oneself. Always myself in the “right box “and others in
the wrong box. Actually I am the true artist, contented with enough justifications,
detachments, critical perspectives, twisting myself and other’s thoughts into
pathways of redundant analysis so that others can finally despise me with most
plausible reason lightened on their heads.
That’s exactly why I am more into the beauty
of the blue beads which is presented to me than the religious purpose of it. That’s
why when someone discloses their most personal, moving sentiments, emotions and
tears, I think upon the generality of it and react with the most ridiculous way
possible. Because I am true artist who can later ponder upon it and dare to photograph
its soreness here without an inch of disgrace.
Romeo with
poison and Juliet with apparent death can have only the impact of critical onlooking
of plot structure at the stage of complication and denouement for me. If you
want to see the sentimental impact on me, leap onto my heart and rip off the
skin, in beneath am I still the artist? I should think on it artistically. I am
an artist. Are you?
