The Painter

You remind me of topaz stones, summer’s interlude into autumn, and a sea of cerulean pimpernels.

I want to say this to her, but I can’t.

I simply fail to bring myself to doing so. I just stand, frozen in awe in some realm independent of time and matter.

The setting seems to slowly fade into nothingness, leaving only her form and the painting she’s immersed in. The setting? I’m not entirely sure where I am anymore. And it doesn’t matter. The fact of the matter is: I’m here, and so is she.

Perhaps we’re in some archaic building with a murky clay interior for walls. An old, former-temple, no longer in use, maybe. The ceiling is probably about 30-feet above us. There could be a square, window-sized gape in the wall, ushering in a beam of sunlight which trickles along the smooth but dusty ground.

No furniture, no decorations. Just an empty, expansive building enclosing only a huge, intricately designed Indian-style rug, the cushion she’s knelt on, her canvas plus all her equipment, and herself. And me.

Her eyes don’t trail away from the canvas set before her for a moment. I’m sure she’s not even aware of my presence. Her hands, slender and polka-dotted with paint, move elegantly. She motors the brush over the paper with such graceful and refined technique. I simply stare for a while, encapsulated by the wonder before me.

To me, she is the art. An important piece of work, worthy of being framed up only in the most sacred of places.

I pictured for a moment me laying back-down beside her, strumming away at a sitar, blanketing the empty room in a psychedelic melody while she continued painting. That’s what I wanted to do, to just lay beside her.

She pauses for a moment, placing the brush down gently on a pallet. She retrieves the steaming cup beside her and sips at the drink, probably Pu-erh or Matcha, all the while glaring intently at her incomplete work. Her expression indicating neither contentment nor distaste.

She’s lost. Lost in the alternate truth and existence that the colours set before her have enticed her into. A truth and existence she forged, herself.

I simply gawk. She brushes an idle strand of hair behind one ear, and with the same finger, prods her glasses further up the bridge of her nose.

She’s clothed in a simple over-sized button-up with the sleeves rolled up and dark olive shorts. Sandals lay next her. Her jewellery is minimal, but notably precious and beautifully ancient. A crown of full, semi-curly hair rests upon her head. The roots brown, fading into a resplendent blonde. Vague, dark patches circle around her eyes, and a hoop in her right nostril compliments her gentle expression.

She radiates this array of strange but somehow rejuvenating energy. I can’t explain it well. But as I eyeball her with this keen infatuation, it brings fresh, vibrant flowers to mind.

She reminds me of everything that blossoms.
Of precious stones passed down through generations.
Of a chest of ancient gold.
Of exquisite hues.

You remind me of topaz stones, summer’s interlude into autumn, and a sea of cerulean pimpernels.

I want to say this to her,
but I don’t.


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