...And here I am now, standing on the floor, holding my paintbrush and staring at the palette of colours without wondering which one to pick, because I knew from the beginning- I will use them all. Just like my feelings for you-I used them all. I thought I exhausted all emotions I held, all the frustration and confusion and still here I am having so much more to give, so much more to feel.
I look at this blank white piece of paper and I want to fill it with colours, with motion, but it still seems so blank. The blue is not blue enough, the orange is just plain and the red is too bright. You probably remember, I rarely use the black and it remains to be one of your favourite colours.
The brush strokes seem unnatural to me. I make an attempt to change my technique, but it still feels so...dull. I touch the canvas and the paint on my fingertips feels like being barefoot underwater. Then the brush becomes unwanted and I boldly touch the paint with my both hands and splash it over the blank piece of paper. A brush does not seem enough to me, just like your love does not seem enough to me.
I look at the painting and I feel...well the same I felt a week ago. The same I will probably feel onward, the same feeling I want to splash with paint just like I do with the canvas. Just like you did with me and just like you want to forget, because it is so easy, so... you.
...And here I am now, writing this, staring at the blank white screen, but this time it is filled with words. All of them black. I still use my fingertips, but sadly the feeling is not the same. Sadly, the satisfying feeling of paint mixture is gone and sadly I am all alone with my thoughts, which become my words. The words express feelings and the feelings, well they are all over the canvas...all over me.
...And at the end of the day, I am just another soul, and you are just another pain to me.
30 Apr 2013
19 Apr 2013
***
There was a moment when she received clarity. She knew that she could not continue it any longer. She took a deep breath and looked up the sky. The clouds seemed effortless in their prettiness and slow motions. The contrast between pure white and this blue colour she adored so much, seemed hopeful in its own way. She did not know what else to do or she did not want to do anything else besides staring at the little clouds and thinking how it felt being with him. Whatever she knew her feelings were, she could never be certain whether they were real, because afterall was he even real?
Being locked in his firm embrace was like the only thing she could care or want that moment, being close to his boyish smile was something she deeply needed and then deeply regreted. Why with all bold things in her life regret always comes. She would still ask herself this, but not now, not yet. All she had now was this moment, regret can wait, she thought. Regret and upset will shortly follow her, but right now she could not care less...or more.
She remembered their last conversation, but it was his laugh that made her lips form a slight smile and her mind took another path to where it all began, and where it would probably end. She promised herself never to need him, never to longe for him and eventually when the moment comes to let him go. Most important, she never allowed herself to love him. They both were not suited for loving each other. They both had their issues like every other person, but together they became something, which was this odd mixture between a spark and a flame.
While being with him, she did her best ignoring all the questions forming in her head, all the unspoken things she desired telling him and all the unknown she wanted to explore...And she succeeded. She managed to push away every little question mark and every bit of curiousity just by a simple glance at him. But no, she could not just glance, she kept looking at his eyes, nose and lips for minutes or seconds between each time they locked lips. He was able to make her experience feelings that were familiar to her, but never so distingushed, never so intense. He was never really hers and she was never completely his, but at the back of her mind she so much wanted to be. In fact, she did not even think about whether he felt it or knew it. He never asked her and she never let herself ask him. Serious or thought-provoking conversations had no place in their time being together, because this is all they were - a cluster of bright moments, a mixture of intense emotions and an abundance of unspoken words. And because of all that, she was sadly convinced that such thing had no place in her simple life.
Being locked in his firm embrace was like the only thing she could care or want that moment, being close to his boyish smile was something she deeply needed and then deeply regreted. Why with all bold things in her life regret always comes. She would still ask herself this, but not now, not yet. All she had now was this moment, regret can wait, she thought. Regret and upset will shortly follow her, but right now she could not care less...or more.
She remembered their last conversation, but it was his laugh that made her lips form a slight smile and her mind took another path to where it all began, and where it would probably end. She promised herself never to need him, never to longe for him and eventually when the moment comes to let him go. Most important, she never allowed herself to love him. They both were not suited for loving each other. They both had their issues like every other person, but together they became something, which was this odd mixture between a spark and a flame.
While being with him, she did her best ignoring all the questions forming in her head, all the unspoken things she desired telling him and all the unknown she wanted to explore...And she succeeded. She managed to push away every little question mark and every bit of curiousity just by a simple glance at him. But no, she could not just glance, she kept looking at his eyes, nose and lips for minutes or seconds between each time they locked lips. He was able to make her experience feelings that were familiar to her, but never so distingushed, never so intense. He was never really hers and she was never completely his, but at the back of her mind she so much wanted to be. In fact, she did not even think about whether he felt it or knew it. He never asked her and she never let herself ask him. Serious or thought-provoking conversations had no place in their time being together, because this is all they were - a cluster of bright moments, a mixture of intense emotions and an abundance of unspoken words. And because of all that, she was sadly convinced that such thing had no place in her simple life.
1 Apr 2013
Some things are better said written and some things are better left unsaid
Writing seemed easy few years ago back then when I was just a 4th grader. I started writing a book with well-structured chapters in one of my old big notebooks that were used to practice my school exercises. Everything besides writing and reading appeared off space and a year later my journal and my books were my only companions. It's not like I need pity or anything. It's just how the things were and it was the only possible way it could be in order to be the person I am now...or not. Nevertheless, past is not called 'past' for no obvious reason. History is not a good place to dig into, especially when you are 21-year-old 'adult'. Everyone has issues. This is a fact I am quite certain that it's true. Still, some issues persist through the years. They crawl into your life and observe you silently. The moment you start thinking that you are the person who has no issues, boom- there they appear. So, you welcome them and try dealing with them, sometimes by ignoring them. Living in a denial. However, I am not going to take your time by writing about denial and whatever issues people have as they decide to grow up. If growing up was ever a decision at all...
Few years later my journal was replaced with a blog and my book was replaced with so called 'stories'. If you ask me, both of them were not what I would call 'worthy'. But somehow they were worthy to me, which was more than enough at that time. The stories I wrote were not so varsatile as I would like to, but I was just a teenage girl and writing about world-wide issues was not exactly my speciality. Without falling into details about my story-writing abilities, I will jump straight into the core of this post- the writing itself. Not the complex and dynamic or monotomic process of producing a word after a word, but rather its meaning to me through the years until now.
At this point of time I would say that writing is not easy or simple at all. I fear it. Starting a story or whatever creative piece seems like something incredibly difficult to me, because I just cannot write like the authors I like and my pieces are nothing like theirs. In the last impressive book I read, one of the characters said something like that: 'Reading is the simplest thing. All you need is to read what others have written and try guessing what they meant.' Needless to say, I could not agree more. Whatever I may try writing will never seem to me as good or even as brilliant as I would want it to be. The same with painting. However, you would never know what it could be if you never even start it. But do not get me wrong, with not intent I mean to say that whatever little prose you write will be a work of genius.
...Still, some things are better said written and some things are better left unsaid.
Few years later my journal was replaced with a blog and my book was replaced with so called 'stories'. If you ask me, both of them were not what I would call 'worthy'. But somehow they were worthy to me, which was more than enough at that time. The stories I wrote were not so varsatile as I would like to, but I was just a teenage girl and writing about world-wide issues was not exactly my speciality. Without falling into details about my story-writing abilities, I will jump straight into the core of this post- the writing itself. Not the complex and dynamic or monotomic process of producing a word after a word, but rather its meaning to me through the years until now.
At this point of time I would say that writing is not easy or simple at all. I fear it. Starting a story or whatever creative piece seems like something incredibly difficult to me, because I just cannot write like the authors I like and my pieces are nothing like theirs. In the last impressive book I read, one of the characters said something like that: 'Reading is the simplest thing. All you need is to read what others have written and try guessing what they meant.' Needless to say, I could not agree more. Whatever I may try writing will never seem to me as good or even as brilliant as I would want it to be. The same with painting. However, you would never know what it could be if you never even start it. But do not get me wrong, with not intent I mean to say that whatever little prose you write will be a work of genius.
...Still, some things are better said written and some things are better left unsaid.
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