#28. where do you hide?
September, 2006
I opened the door, and there she stood: bright, heart open wide like her outstretched arms, willing. You can always tell by her eyes whether she is unstably walking that fine line between shriveling into a ball of confused emotion, or letting herself explode with the bittersweet exhilaration. And of course, she was. This is where she and I differ-- that fine line.
Of course there are times when I am quite frankly very scared of how my internal intensity will come across; I have been known to shock people with the electricity coming off my fingertips. At times I am also scared to pull back the wrong curtain to reveal the wrong picture, as common of those toying with the same idea, but looking in different directions. But none of these silly little fears compare to the gain of the state where I find myself.
The opened door, like some miracle in a flash of epiphany, took my breath away and gave me air to breathe all at once. This is what Art is all about, I thought, and it all made sense. I had gotten used to stealing quick unsatisfied peaks at her neck, curls pulled aside, like a Renoir painting presenting a picture of a long pale lonely road. There were even times when our lips would tingle and breathing would speed up to a verge of screaming, or moaning, or melting, or anything that would somehow interfere with Time’s mocking spread of wings. Somehow this careless game has continued its course through our fragile feelings; its beauty blinding the danger.
One of these days surely this misleading madness will perish with hurtful flames, and I will mourn the emptiness of ashes in my heart. But as I opened the door, I could not help but feel myself a little Romeo, awaiting freely Art’s devouring and longing for the butterflies of her oblivion’s touch.
I opened the door, and there she stood: bright, heart open wide like her outstretched arms, willing. You can always tell by her eyes whether she is unstably walking that fine line between shriveling into a ball of confused emotion, or letting herself explode with the bittersweet exhilaration. And of course, she was. This is where she and I differ-- that fine line.
Of course there are times when I am quite frankly very scared of how my internal intensity will come across; I have been known to shock people with the electricity coming off my fingertips. At times I am also scared to pull back the wrong curtain to reveal the wrong picture, as common of those toying with the same idea, but looking in different directions. But none of these silly little fears compare to the gain of the state where I find myself.
The opened door, like some miracle in a flash of epiphany, took my breath away and gave me air to breathe all at once. This is what Art is all about, I thought, and it all made sense. I had gotten used to stealing quick unsatisfied peaks at her neck, curls pulled aside, like a Renoir painting presenting a picture of a long pale lonely road. There were even times when our lips would tingle and breathing would speed up to a verge of screaming, or moaning, or melting, or anything that would somehow interfere with Time’s mocking spread of wings. Somehow this careless game has continued its course through our fragile feelings; its beauty blinding the danger.
One of these days surely this misleading madness will perish with hurtful flames, and I will mourn the emptiness of ashes in my heart. But as I opened the door, I could not help but feel myself a little Romeo, awaiting freely Art’s devouring and longing for the butterflies of her oblivion’s touch.