01.

There was nowhere I belonged to but the blank canvas of spilled paint and scribbled graphite up in my attic. With time all sense of belonging had disappeared, society and civilisation, all worldly vulgarities had blurred into a moment of self alienation, there was nowhere I could run to but the same undone painting of my youth.

Like an aching dancer's broken heel did flutter my heart when the sun would cast down a mirage of hope, it was where I belonged, between reality and the lucid dreams of fantasy, where the lies mingled with the truth and no one knew me or my sense of rendering longing. It was just me and my madness, lost in shades of vermillion and green and yellow and those of the reminiscent sea. No one would call my name except the silence that would scream tales of my prolonged belonging.

Each stroke builds its own story, every drop that spills on the cold ground is a potent character lost in this maddening process of emotional eruption, insanity binds me by the same lines I draw to outline my smearing colours, it's the same as that of a boundless dancer, lost to music, lost to the rhythm that is everlasting and never repeating. Like a woman running into wilderness, consumed by her drifting passion, I believe this is where I belong. 

Where the thundering scream of fury meets the sombre tears of grief, losing my head to the flowering buds of despair reuniting with hope, I find myself turning over the old canvases and burning my prints so old that time aches for rebound, the ash of affection mixes with the shadow of a newborn flavour.  The taste of perfection had consumed my tongue, left it sour, begging to devour another canvas of divulged agony. The craving of perfection, the idea of bruising the old canvas to build a tomb of true love sacrificed to death still lingers.

I wonder if this was where I truly wandered, where the innocent child in me chased imperfectly drawn butterflies in shades pink and purple, where I had spent nights colouring my magic boat like that of timber. I cease to remember. The days when the sun would break through the luminous night, crown me with tiaras that were remnants of a child.

I wonder if it was fire that would thaw the ice, the ice that surrounds the heart, the heart that longs for art, art that blinds the eye, the eye that rationalises the antithesis of colouring, the colouring that would bring back warmth and warmth that could steal colours from the spilled paints and glisten the darkened genesis of outburned wrath. Wrath that consumed my bones and all.