Days have passed. Many days. Many insignificant days. I am hobbled, tethered with invisible ropes. The sight of ink fills me with dread. Nothing moves within me except a few strands of my soul, to music. My bile is feeble and my guts acidic. There is sand in my eyes. I have no patience with words. Or anything else.
Maya used to say that I paint with my eyes. I have stopped now. I wouldn’t have, had I not felt that the steps she took that evening were certain. It was almost as if spring had moved, away from my dreams with her, and, then abased itself at her feet. I aged so quickly in those few moments as if years had sprinted away from me. My world turned grey and bronchitic. Asphalt chipped off from roads leading to her. It melted and got sucked through my ear lobes.
It is not my destiny to pursue happiness. I had hoped, at least, to turn my bile into ink. Even that is no longer visible on paper. My papers are virgin. My words suffer from erectile dysfunction.
The fire within me has died. But my canvasses have burnt. Only embers remain. It has begun to rain now.