There is just something magical about her. She’s not human; I know that because I can’t find her here. Sometimes we talk, other times I am left in silence – feeling utterly empty. It’s difficult to express to you, the reader, what she is – for she belongs to no one, no culture, no society, no nation, no religion, no race. She is a free spirit, and I think that’s why I love her. But I am a mere human, and my body is too primitive. It is universally impossible to marry her fascinating essence with a decaying, dying corpse such as my own. I am instead forced to suffer the tantalising torture such divinity inflicts when communication is scarce. You see, she feels my body when I dance, speaks to me when I sing, impregnates my mind when I write and shows me her naked body when I paint.
I feel her presence permeate my mind right now as I write to you. She created this world. Everything you see. The exuberant colours, the vivacious shapes, the lexical significance that gives life purpose and meaning is all of her doing. I wouldn’t be surprised if love came to exist when she did. To me, she is my everything, even though I know the feeling is not mutual. I am loyal – however, she is not. Intimately her presence is felt by all, even stronger by the lucky few. That saddens me greatly and has often left me feeling depressed. Why do some see and speak to her more than others? Is my existence but an unpleasant artistic stain on a painting that ought to be washed by the artist? And is her lack of acknowledgement but a sign of disinterest in my appearance? I often wonder if my universe was painted into existence by her on a canvas. That the detail of my life, my reality – is rarely touched by her brush. For the attractiveness of other people that lie upon that canvas is far more appealing. People like Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Vincent Van Gogh, Michelangelo, Frida Kahlo, they slept with her; often kissed her tasteful coloured lips. Therefore, such humans can write, paint, sing, dance, sculpt, produce the most amazing art. Meanwhile, I struggle to write this. I am not a good artist. I am average at best. Evident in my life I have not achieved much. It’s like a mirror; I can only reflect what she gives me, and what she gives me is not enough to be considered worthy of the title ‘artist.’ That occasionally enrages me. For if I am not an artist than what am I? Humans create things. From physical objects to mental domains of entire galaxies existing in the imagination. We invent stuff into existence and continue to do so until death. So to be stripped of that natural title and informed that someone else has taken it hurts. I feel heartbroken. Torn internally where my soul yearns for its source of happiness – her.
I sit here in this public park as I write to you. Swallowed up by time and surrounded by machines who pretend to be humans. They have a direction, and it’s a lie.
“Excuse me?” A young woman who looks to be my age questions for my attention. “Excuse me?” She asks again. I am not interested. I have never been much for verbal communication. I prefer to stare at the movement of ants than to infect my mind with the thoughts of someone else’s. Ever since a child, I ran from social confrontation, avoiding my birthdays and dreading others. “May I sit with you?” The lady asks. I raise my head to meet her eyes. They’re black, with a blue coloured planet in the middle. I stare without replying. Captivated by this lonely colour surrounded by absolute blackness, her eyes express the cosmos. There is a world within there, and inside a person that see’s me. “Well, may I?” She laughed this time. Freaked out by my weird demeanour most likely. However, regardless of my strangeness the woman proceeds to sit down next to me. I look away and return to my notebook, hoping for my hand to be held, to be guided to write something poetic. I ask to hear the voice of art, of her. Instead, the woman next to me speaks. “Have you ever noticed that the darker the environment, the more visible light is?” Ridiculous, I say to myself. “Take this night sky for example.” She continues to speak. Her voice is quite lovely I suppose. “Our sight can absorb the distant light of far-away stars otherwise unseen during the day because of the darkness. Isn’t that just beautiful?” No, no it is not. Regardless, I don’t understand why the stranger has told me this. I would ask, but that would just further the conversation. Maybe I should write what was said. I put my pen to my paper, although as proven – actions speak louder than words. “Oh, you’re a writer?” The woman asks. I wish. If only who I desire to communicate with spoke to me as much as this stranger does; then I would be known as a writer. A great one at that too. “I am an artist as well.” She says as she smiles. Please, what do you know of art I wonder? You would not be talking to a ghost like myself if that marvellous force cherished your life with her touch. I almost laugh. I feel like falling over in hysteria whenever I hear someone say that they are an artist. No artist lives with us. They do not remain amongst the colourless in an ugly dull world. She abducts true artists. They are taken to her realm to live and create universes like ours. Because only an artist could have created this work of art we find ourselves within. What we call the universe. “I enjoy painting, singing, dancing, acting, writing, photography..” Her voice fades away into background noise as I concentrate on the paper in my notebook. It’s peculiar to just look at a piece of paper. It’s a simple medium that contains the potential to carry complex meaning. All that it takes is a swift movement of an organisms wrist mixed with its intelligence to bring the blankness to life. “…Designing, decorating and playing the piano.” Her voice slowly crept back into my sense of hearing. If I were to tell the truth, I quite like her accent and tone. It’s foreign, charming, soothing and somewhat inspiring. As well as this, she’s considerably pretty. Even the goddess Diana cannot turn her gaze away for the moonlight elegantly illuminates this woman while I sit in darkness, only known by the streetlight.
I think I am beginning to enjoy her company. But that can not be, surely I must not be fancying her. To do such a thing will undoubtedly prevent me from ever speaking to art. She would never forgive my monkey-urges to procreate. I will never write again. My time here on earth would be occupied with mundane things. Worrying about superficial nonsense associated with childish games. Games such as meeting people who I have no interest in but are titled with importance because they share the same blood as my partner. The silliness of changing my characteristics to suit this woman’s needs. Immaturity of no longer sleeping with art because of the insecurity. I will ultimately be controlled by this stranger that now sits next to me. “Life is so beautiful and glorious.” She says while looking around. My initial response is to ignore her again, but there’s something within me developing an urge to respond. “It is just mm” She slapped her hands together. “Anything and everything. I mean, I sit here and speak to a complete stranger on a park bench on a planet rotating around a star in a solar system barely seen within its galaxy. Don’t you think life is just..?” I don’t have much intention to answer that question, for I’m too enthralled by how much she intrigues me. Her mind is abstract and her words are world changing. As well as this, awkwardly her dainty hands arouse me. There is history to this woman, and I want to know. I’m going to speak my mind. I’m going to communicate to her and express my thoughts openly. Let her learn about me and in return create a bridge to connect ourselves to one another. Maybe even progress further. For why shouldn’t I? Art has no interest in me; her eyes are not attracted to my existence. There is no point in trying to speak to her anymore – this is for the best. “Oh, my” The woman alarming announced. “It’s past 9:40 pm; I’m going to miss my train.” Quickly, she removes herself from the park bench while saying her goodbyes. “It was so very nice to meet you.” She graciously tells me. Her legs begin to move, carrying away her beautiful mind.
“Wait..” I call out. “I think I’m in love with you.” It hurt to admit that. I assume it must feel the same for when a religious person denounces their God. However, it was enough to influence her to turn around and expose that delicate face with those fulfilling eyes, drowning my soul in an ocean of ecstasy.
“Sorry, I’m half-deaf!” She yells back. “Save the thought, hopefully we meet again!” A smile waves me goodbye. My eyes lose sight of her. They fill with natural liquid, expelling drops of water down my cheeks. I’m left alone again. More empty than ever before. I close my eyes to be killed by the all too familiar pain of darkness. Stabbed and whipped to death from the torture of living without her. I’ve now lost them both. Art, my colour, myself, my purpose to live. And I’ve lost this physical entity that welcomed me openly, but I was too ignorant to realise her meaning and what lied beyond. I already miss her. Thankfully, at least my imagination can present her to me. Show me a place where we lie side by side absorbed by each other’s wonder and complexity that we originate a cosmos together. To beautifully depict stars of memories and galaxies of adventures that can in return mix and form an organism known as our child. How marvellous it is to imagine that. I feel excited, awe-inspired and grand. I would even go as far to say that I feel how Leonardo secretly felt about Mona Lisa. My veins are flowing with colour, my nerves are tingling in a dream state, and my mind is swelling with an essence of absolute magic. My god, I can see her, I can see art. She bears the face of the lovely woman that sat beside me. She acknowledges me; she can hear my voice, she see’s me. I see now what she shows me. There is this peculiar energy that drifts through time to haunt my presence. It is a powerful source of love that is not found in this time-stream, but rather love that wanders back from a reality that exists, but yet to happen. A reality where my eyes stare at this source of completion, this energy in which I have titled as ‘her’; for it has a radiant feminine touch, yet contradictorily, a dominant vibe. It breaks the laws of time and contacts me in this timeline where I am captured in amazement and inspired to find her. My future wife that I am in love with now and have a connection to that is so strong – her presence flows back in time to reach me here. And it is here that I can paint her face, write about her personality, sing about her mind and dance like I’m making love to her.
What I have written before you is not of art, but of something more – love.