Sunday, September 21, 2014
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?