It was only a week ago when
The hollow burden of being alive
Started nipping at my heart
And like every other restless man
I chose to listen to its mindless harp.
My life was a painted canvas,
I wish it was empty so I could repaint it
But it was painted and badly.
Awful color choices made the worst palette
And the design looked ghastly.
“What an oeuvre!”, I was horrified.
If I were an artist and critic at the same time
I would tear the canvas in concrete abomination.
Wash it under a tap
And blot it beyond recognition.
But, it wasn’t a canvas after all
Instead, my life.
Disgusting, nasty piece of art, a farce
Mine, nonetheless, whatever it may be
A friend or a pain in my arse.
Tediously I blotched every color
Every aspect of my life
Reimagined every corner, every edge
Of the canvas, but all made it
Look as useless as unmowed sedge.
“Huh!”, I snorted
“What a piece of trash!”
I said as life felt like a never-ending DIY project.
With parts missing and equipment damaged
A pile of shit I wanted to reject.
So, casually I showed my back to the canvas
And walked away from it.
I whistled my favorite song
Sauntered through my favorite streets
Smiled, waved, jumped, danced all along.
What freedom I felt
Now that my life was left behind
In some isolated studio far away in the town.
My heart felt as light as a circus
That got rid of a depressing clown.
I spent the day having fun
Until, I reached home and there it was
My canvas, my life, my oeuvre, my art
“You forgot it at ours” smiled my friend
Ripping my happiness every bit apart.
I looked into the painting, it looked back into me
And I barged out of the house
Into a stationery across the street.
I bought the finest, fanciest brush
And the costliest paint for it to eat.
“There, I have repainted it with fresh colors”
I felt satisfied as I sniffed the scent of wet paint.
The smell was weird and I could have passed out,
But, like a valour I stood with my hands on the waist
Eyes closed, and chest puffed like a stout.
When I opened my eyes to have a final look
I was deeply satisfied with what was before me.
A paper, my life, sweeped in all shades.
Dark, monochromatic, pitch black
A piece of art that I made.
“Now, now, now.” I gleed.
As I cleaned the brushes and capped color bottles.
An empty canvas like a blank day
With lots in the past but always a choice
To repaint or replay.
I stretched my arms and sighed deeply
Drowsy and tired, I crashed on the bed.
My heart still harped but not so loud
I switched off the lights and closed my eyes
Sleep engulfed and I dreamt of grasslands, unmowed.
Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash.