How soon is soon?
Write a review of your life — or the life of someone close to you — as if it were a movie or a book.
Photographers, artists, poets: show us LIFE.
And so I turned to art. Eden. Life. Delight.
Because I already posted a “serious post” yesterday in my other blog.
This is how I roll.
Yey! We’re almost done with this year’s song. In a few hours, it will be a brand new year, a brand new start.
I’m supposed to share a picture of what I am seeing for my 2013 and what better way to do that than to paint the scene with words and phrases, sentences, paragraphs, and interjections? Oh, but I shall add an accompanying illustration as well — an original which looks like it was taken straight out of a Final Fantasy fanfic site, in my opinion. But I “drew” it myself. Okay, enough intro. Here’s a painting of my 2013 for you:
Brick upon brick, upon brick, upon brick, upon brick. Slab upon slab, upon slab, upon slab, upon even more dazzling gemlike slabs of stone. I spread a layer of cement between each one, the glue unusually silky but dependably strong.
That should do the trick. That should keep them steady. That should hold them in place.
That should be enough to keep them from toppling over.
I scrape off the excess putty and take a look at the brilliant wall. It was no joke trying to build it. But it was all a work of love, a labour of devotion, an endeavor of enamorment. All that made lifting the heavy bricks, touching the jagged slabs, and putting every single thing in place so much easier than it would have been if love hadn’t been part of the equation.
I pause, daring myself to believe it. Completion. The word resounds in my ears.
Sure it’s just a wall. Sure it’s just a portion of the house, of the Cathedral, of my castle of dreams.
But what I have been putting my focus into building is now — well, technically “are now” —
(Day 25 – Something that you’re looking forward to)
The colours came easily. I thought it would be difficult to paint that picture but, surprisingly, it felt natural to mix the browns with the greens, the purples with the blues, the reds with the yellows and blacks. Quickly, the different hues mixed in to form what my heart believed to be a future scene.
A rainbow. A door. A clear blue sky. White swirls that stemmed out of my fanciful imagination. These gave allusion to dreams and promises waiting to be fulfilled, unknown territories waiting to be discovered. Joy. Happiness. Squabbles over soap and laundry detergent brands. All kinds of unexpected adventures and endless possibilities blended in with the painting’s blues and greens.
A girl. Facing the door. Fulfilled after walking down her own independent and clandestine path.
A boy. The bravest she has ever met. Next to her. Blurry still in this picture but clearer – perhaps – in time.
Together. Eyes, hearts, minds open to the invitation of that life yet to come.
My fingers trembled holding the finished piece. Truly, it was something any girl would look forward to. It was something I – honestly, yes, oh so very truthfully – have always set my heart onto.
I heaved a sigh, yet, at the same time, looked at the picture with a smile. It shall find its place in that box, that chest secured by a very special lock and key. One day, it shall once again see light. One day, it might even be put up on display.
But then we’ll have to wait for that ‘one day’.
Well, we shall get there in time. :)
Darkness. Complete and total darkness. Brokenness. Painful, heart-rending brokenness. She stares at the world before her, seeing empty nothingness. She hugs her feet to her shoulders, shielding herself from the dagger-like assault of the cutting, shard-like air.
“Is there hope?” She asks. “Is there hope for this fallen world?”
“There is.” She hears a Still Small Voice. “There’s hope for this fallen world.”
The Voice – almost inaudible – startles her and she stands – terrified, tentative, yet feeling a tiny ember of hope light up in her heart.
“There is?” As she speaks, a paintbrush manifests in her left hand, a feather pen in her right.
“Paint the invisible into this dark and empty canvas. Write words of hope into this hopeless, despairing world.”
Slowly, she lifts her instruments up. The brush leaves a trail of bright, luminescent colors as she weaves it carefully about. The feather pen cautiously forms words like “joy”, “gladness”, “perseverance”, and “faith”. As she discovers her power to create she begins to use her instruments more confidently. The colors from her paintbrush become more vibrant; the words from her pen become more daring and life altering.
She gapes at the world before here, looks at it in awe, and is amazed by the world of color, the world of striking vividness. She spreads her arms open, savors the freedom brought by this new world of wholeness, and hears that Still Small Voice speak once again.
“See. There is hope.”