a detail of a yet incomplete painting, which is my life
…written last July 20, 2007
My psyche has been so boxed of late that in so many attempts to inscribe my thoughts out, I have always ended up going through a now-all-too-familiar routine–ripple of inspiration, booting of computer, blankly staring at the screen, writing down some words, mentally shaking the head, writing down some other words, staring off to space, refocusing to the screen, mentally shaking the head harder, writing down a word, closing the screen without saving anything, and frustration…To those who really know me, I seemed so lost; to those who would like to think they do, I seemed withdrawn; to those who do not, I looked perfectly fine–all of them were at some point right, for I have become so lost in my desperation that I had no choice but to withdraw and hide behind a sunny mask; one that inevitably breaks when the day winds-up. Such was my state that the shortest answer that even I found difficult to give, in response to the question “How are you?” was, “Fine.”
Life is beautiful, that I know, but the past days I found that hard to believe…because I have been trying to deal with the feeling that everything about me seem to be so uninteresting; that nothing exciting is happening and nothing exciting will ever happen; that nothing ever comes my way except waves of pain, I can’t even look forward to a new day for the fear of being hurt again, which made me realize that one experience that was so long ago left me cynical and doubly defensive; that I am merely surviving each day, not living it. I struggled hard, fixated in the wanting to find logic in every single episode…something that I should not have done.
There were so many details that I have missed, details that to me appeared minute to the point that I considered it trifling…because I have been concentrating so hard on wanting to know why there are fractions with less vibrant colours even dark and ominous, thus failing to see that that, in itself, is its beauty. I was fastidiously poring over every single line, instead of waiting for the Artist to finish and be able to look at the painted canvass as a whole. I was like a wannabe-aesthete who insisted on looking at the work of art even before it was even completed and ending up unsatisfied, unfulfilled…
Life is, after all, like an abstract painting. Its episodes, like the individual strokes of that painting, can sometimes be comprised of incoherent colours that, at first glance, do not seem to depict anything concrete, at least not until the painter satisfactorily says he has completed his work to perfection. Each single coloured detail, on its own, though relevant, seems insubstantial, one-dimensional; yet with even just a single stroke missing in the picture, the painting will never appear as beautiful as it is with everything in place, and thus no single detail, however small and seemingly insignificant should be overlooked and considered as inconsequential.
