And he left me hanging there.
On the easel, that is. I’ve been waiting for him to start his work on me for quite some time, but for the last few days, he just comes near me, stares at me like I am the love he lost long back, picks up his brush, the pen he uses to scribble his rants on me, and then gets lost in some myriad maze of mind-blocking thoughts, keeps the camel-haired piece of wood down, and retires for the day to an eternal ennui, which keeps me here, weeping, hanging, and waiting.
The mirror sitting on the opposite wall is very cruel. I consider myself an escapist, a submissive, and ready for the presentation of my master’s thoughts. But he, the cruel mirror shows me my dark side, those tears in my thoughts, the utter distress I face when I try to hide my wish to paint myself my own way.
He just smirks, he is beyond repentance.
I just think. I am white, a confluence of all the seven major colors, yet blank, lifeless, and colorless, while the mirror is the supreme reflective black-hole. Yet, I am patient, I know that I wouldn’t be white any longer; I’ll be a masterpiece soon. Yet I wonder, why can’t I be the master-crafter, master-artist, and master-painter for some time, rather than being the master-‘piece’?
I lose my existence in the coming of the night, and wait for the next morning to reveal its shadows, and lights.
He came back today. I was quite shocked at his distressed look; the marks of over-thinking were more than evident on his face. And, he did leave a part of those distressed marks on me. He picked up the brush (itself in the most anguished state) and tore off my pristine blankness, exposing me to a flood of thoughts, trying to drown my identity in theirs. And I, as usual, gave in to their efforts. After some time he left me alone again, and I caught a few glances at the mirror, for my dose of introspection.
I was horrified. I felt like I should end my existence with one jump from the easel, and cascade myself into an ironically loud death (yes, I am supposed to be the forever-quiet). He had spoilt my pristine form; he had destroyed the essence of my existence with those unruly abstract marks of barbequed black. I silently wept turpentine tears, while the mirror just smirked.
I have seen him through all his days. His serpentine fantasies have found a place in my open texture, while my eyes have found his. Yet, he has failed to do justice to my silence, and I can feel the colors of rebellion rising in me. The mirror reflects them back with a horrendous truthfulness, and I try to wash them off. I try to remind myself that I was born to be a medium, and not a responsive creator. I realized I am like Tennyson’s Light Brigade, because, mine’s not to reason why, mine’s not to make reply.
And, the mirror smirked again.
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