The Amaranthine Poet

Brush Strokes

January 29, 2009 on 9:31 pm | In Everything | 222 Comments

I saw him standing there. He trembled as a cold burst of intelligent thought surged through his mind and broke open his pupils. His mouth moved, overwhelmed with words which held the secrets of malicious and quiet beauty. His mouth moved with words, but he moved no one with his words. A golden aura bled through his veins, bursting through his skin. It shook the ground and sent sharp chills up the earth’s feeble spine. He lifted his hand to the sky, grabbing a storm of laughter which poured from his core just seconds before. I stood hidden behind a coy shadow cast down by a moon buried within spun cotton.

His discerning gaze built strong walls before him and I knew he understood. I knew he understood everything which he saw. I wanted him to see me and understand, but he wouldn’t have it. I didn’t exist to him. Even when I accidentally…ok, deliberately crushed a fallen leaf under my foot…the disruptive sound didn’t beckon his gaze. He stood, a fury of knowledge locked in his eyes. He stood, staring at the blank walls before him. He began painting pictures on them; abstract illustrations of his understanding, of all he knew. So perfect, so precise. I wanted him to understand me. I took a deep breath and when the wind grew still and hushed I leaned forward and let out an exaggerated sigh, hoping I would make my presence known…but still, not one of his muscles twitched. He continued to paint and I continued to be a blank wall. His thoughts controlled the brush strokes: blurred images of orange paradise and grey blistered pain. I was angry now, I was being ignored. I stepped out from behind the shadow and sprinted toward him, and tripped–tripped on nothing. My chin bit the ground and I blew out another sigh, blowing up dust. Dust clouding around my face, stinging my eyes. Dust reaching out it’s limbs and reaching out for him. I looked up at him and the dust billowed around his feet, curling around his legs, erasing him. I crawled toward him, grabbing, pleading. By the time I reached where he was, he was gone, completely erased. Copper dust thickened, assumed his form, then dispersed unmercifully. I tried to gather it, suck it deep into my lungs, hoping that I would steal away some of his knowledge.

I fell to my knees, my chin throbbing. Something cold dripped onto me…rain? Blood? Tears? No, I looked up and saw the strong walls which he painted with his knowledge. Yellow, blue, pink drips of paint slid off the walls and poured over me, surrounding me. Images drooping, fading, smearing, falling. I held out my hands and watched as the fresh paint drenched them. Nothing was around me anymore. No moon, no clouds, no walls, no ground, no man…just colors.

I was a single cell cast into a blazing rainbow. Red, purple ribbons wrapping tightly around me, humming, fizzing. Soft green rivers filling my mouth, wrapping tightly around my lungs. I have no air, but I realize I have never truly breathed until this moment. Strong pink arms cradle me, whispering dreams to me which I know I will forget but which breathe for me. Strong pink arms lift me and I fall asleep…

I wake up, colors sullen and still beside me, but no longer consuming me, no longer inside me. I try to move, but I am stuck. My gaze is locked, romancing only what is visible before me. I shut my eyes for a moment and when I open them I see a golden aura shaking the ground. A swift breeze burns my lips. Then, I see him…there he is standing before me. His mouth moved and intelligent words escaped from the darkness of his throat and danced across his cheeks. He knew me now…he stared at me with a fury of knowledge locked in his fiery eyes. He understood. I had become a painting on his wall. He knew me. I was overcome with the urge to cry and I didn’t know if it was because I was stuck as a painting on a wall or if it was because he understood me, he knew me and that moved me. That relieved me. He held the key to the door of my mind, my soul, my heart. I knew now that the door was not shut and the key had not been lost. I wanted to cry, but being a painting, I could not cry. The tension clenched my soul until he reached up and gathered white threads of silk from the sky and began painting my tears for me. He knew.

He lifted his hand to the sky and I realized at that moment that I know nothing…I am what is known.

Jenna Awad