I am a work of art. No really, I have been painted by an artist. But there was something very peculiar about the colours he used to make me. Unlike the lifeless reflections of a mixture of the palette, the spectrum which he created to paint me had signs of a soul in them. The red on my lips had the taste of blood and the pink of my nails had the scent of a rose. Even the green colour of my eyes wept the dew drops of the leaves in the mist of the morning.
I had been created with a mere brush from a box, a brush that went back into the box after every painting, back in the world of darkness that stood in an unknown silence till the creak of a hinge and the click of a latch let the light touch its hard, coarse, hair. But these colours lived on to see the light. See it through me. And now I had been made to dwell in the worlds that millions only imagine living. Jumping from one painting to the other, discovering hidden worlds and reading untold stories. Giving a whole new meaning to the term, the term 'Interpretation of Art'. I can undo those long conversations over Caviar and Chardonnay, unveil the truths, read between the lines, the strokes, the blots and the spots, all of this even before the paint dries off that sheet of canvas.
Imagine me, asking Mona Lisa why she smiled so or having the chance to taste that Last Supper on that table that cast so many questions to the world when all they wanted was some bread and wine. Gazing at the Cosmos on that Starry Night. It was all so blissful and yet to unrealistic, as if I was still on the other side, wishing upon falling stars and falling eyelashes.
Today, I am on this port where ships with sails have been docked beside me. With their orange sails settling down on the mast, I compare the smooth touch of their sheets to the bruised blisters on the hull. I can smell the stench of fishes being hauled on to the port and the sound of gulls trying to scavenge for any left behind. Beneath me is the water splashing against the rocks and the crabs that peek outside for any leftovers.
Tomorrow, I'll embrace the silence and sit in a room with empty chairs and vacant beds. Gaze through windows with tinted green glass that show me the cloudy skies and beyond. Discover wardrobes and pick out clothes whose owners are unknown or unborn.
I have made plans for days to come as I wander from frame to frame and see beyond sunsets and travel under the seas but in my heart of hearts I do hope to find another creation such as I, who may share this eternal space and share the secrets that I may have missed out on.
For there lies a brush with its tips stained with blood lying closed in a box.