Of Small Hours and Racing Thoughts

tangled

I once painted a portrait of you with all different reds and blues. I studied the angles of your face like it was a text book, and wrote my report in swirls of color on a canvas. I watched with glee as my masterpiece grew into what I wanted it to be. It was an alluring depiction of you, but certainly not one that could catch the breath-taking sight of you. But how can I, a painter who can no longer see, truly understand the concept of beauty? Is it really possible for me to speak of gorgeous things, but to not know of what other marvelous things await me in this world?

I'm not sure.

My inspiration was the motion of nature, the lighting and contrast, contours and structure, that can only be seen to fully understand. I relied on hues of the morning sky, to enlighten me of the many shades that could adorn my artwork. To me, my illustrations were the only way to show people the charming simplicity of the world. Through colors, I not only portrayed the thoughts that blossomed in my mind, but I translated the picture of imagination.

But here, tangled in these continuous intervals of darkness I am only a painter who has no muse to gaze upon. I lack the endless flow of inspiration to be called an artist. And sadly, I no longer possess the power to create what the mind wants to be displayed on paper.

The unfortunate event that cost me my passion, has guided me to a place unlike any other, where the one thing I so crave with a desperate longing, is so far out of my reach. Sounds are swimming in my ears, and feelings are coursing through my heart, smells are wafting into my nostrils, textures are grazing upon my skin, but nothing flashes in my sight. The scenes that I have collected in my head have become fuzzy. Over the course of weeks, the images that once cluttered my mind seemed to have faded like the material in worn out jeans. Slowly, the grip on my last piece of security is slipping out of my hands, to be lost in a river of all forgotten things. My eyes are only there for display, to show the world my fogged over bronze irises, and let them make of it what they must.

What can I do to fill the gaping hole that my mind seems to think about almost all the time?

I've been stripped of my one joy, other than you, but how could you love me now?

I wonder if I could even be considered an artist. The option to pick up a brush and cover the page with images that tell a story is no longer available for me. Every mark I fabricated had a set purpose to ensure my finished project, but it was not my passion that failed, it was my visual perception that faltered in its' duty. And in turn, the motion of my hands halted. The sound of a brush sweeping across paper ceased. The smell of acrylic paint soon faded from the studio, leaving behind a stale scent that hung in the air to remind me of things that will never be again. The feel of the paint on my fingertips was now a foreign sensation to me. To say that I could ever be a painter again is a distant dream that is so very likely come true. Because without my sight, I am nothing.

Without my eyes, I am a broken toy. Without my eyes, I am an author with no words to say. Without my eyes, I am a rusty gate. Without my eyes, I am a deaf composer. Without my eyes, I am living in a shadow. This is not a painter. This is a helpless dreamer.

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