A quick note, this piece of prose poetry (I hope!) is inspired by the frustration and sadness I feel as an aspiring artist and engineer, at not being able to draw from my imagination and grasp Science or Mathematics as clearly as I’d like to. It’s also inspired by how trapped I feel with not knowing enough words to speak my mind. In short, this is me venting (sorry!) about not being good at anything I love. Hope it makes for a good read!
“Because what’s worse than knowing you want something, besides knowing you can never have it?”
― James Patterson, The Angel Experiment
When the world feels blue, my vision is cleaved by different timelines or interests that ease this loss of purpose. But too much heart often ends up numbing everything out — this world and its constructs, all these societal requirements, dreams, hopes, and love – love for what might be.
If my love was a song, it’d be the one I’d play on my happiest day and my saddest. It’d be an acoustic hymn with lyrics inspired by my favourite paintings, theories and stars. It’d be gentle and the chorus would be quiet like an autumnal breeze with a slight drizzle in the backdrop of life. A song where birds would sing along and clouds and trees would dance to their tunes.
Maybe if I was synesthetic*, I would have given this melodic love refreshing hues too—a drop of yellow to brighten it up, a pinch of white to soften the look, a stroke of grey to mute the tones, and a large splash of rich burgundy with silver drops that glisten from afar for burgundy is a colour that represents joy when it’s sad, sacrifice and purpose – all at once.
This love; it’s overwhelming and often rains recklessness when everything else simply seems mundane. There’s a melancholic gait, to ventures rooted in this love of mine because it’s all so very fragile.
I pray for the day when my hands paint the dream I dream and not the nightmares I turn my references1 to. My hopes are littered and riddled with dreams of finding meaning in numbers, figures, data, and information.
Oh, how this love hurts – such agony to love so deeply only to never be good enough for the magic in this world or results that answer questions. I mourn it all, every day and watch as hope looms on the morrow with new tales, save for the same-old brain that comprehends nothing and is incapable of articulating thoughts along with hands that yearn to hold a paintbrush only to find it can’t operate one without bringing nightmares to life.
* synaesthesia – a condition in which someone experiences things through their senses in an unusual way, for example by experiencing a colour as a sound, or a number as a position in space (source: Cambridge Dictionary)
1references – (here) means the pictures I refer to when drawing.
“The most confused you will ever get is when you try to convince your heart and spirit of something your mind knows is a lie.”
― Shannon L. Alder
This was written in response to this week’s We’ave Written Weekly; W3 poetry prompt hosted by David @ The Skeptic’s Kaddish. This week’s prompt given by Britta Benson is to write a prose poem on the theme of Love or Elephants where all poetic devices are allowed.
Please feel free to join in – submissions are open until September 11, 10:00 AM (GMT+3)!
Thoughtfully yours,
D
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