To make the same mistake again and go down the yellow brick road, paved with criticism. The road leading to the masses that reek of sarcasm and try to pin their smell on you. You often try to escape through the alleys of indifference, to lock yourself up in vanity where you would stay up all night long fighting absurdity. You’d spend the night burying your face in the fire and despite your desperate need of sleep you don’t shut your eyes in fear of nightmares. The same nightmares that tear you apart between the beast with the thousand eyes and the dark room of mirrors and shadows. No you do not sleep, you do not dream but instead drift away to an encouraging presence.
There you would paint a gentle pair of eyes in which you can rest through the night. And around those eyes you’d paint a face, a precious face, one that is real, one that is not woven of deceitful shadows.
A presence, a face, eyes and an encounter in which you would be brought back to meaning by a touch of love. An encounter where you would look truth in the eye only to realize that the face you paint is actually painting you. And so you go on painting the painting that paints you.
You wonder where it all started, and if it ever ends. You wonder whether what you are painting is true and if it really matters, whether what you paint is beautiful and who’s to decide? You wonder whether your painting is good, and what is good to begin with? But in the end, all you’ve got is a face, in front of whom, all else is silenced so that life may sing you a song of hope, birth and abundance.
Eddy Abi Younes