My art

The leaves were starting to fall.

We were preparing to head, on a caravan, right onto the other shore, right into the core of recent history.

That was when the time bomb was set.

Suddenly, it seemed, a turning point was marked in my life this year.

A war, it is.

Let the games begin.

A candid illusion, perhaps.

The roads were unstoppable at requesting my name.

Another dawn, another waking up on a random metropolis, another hasting run to be in time or to just try and sleep amidst the noisy environment of the urban chaos.

So as to distract myself from the imploding duties burning red right around the corner, I steered to the marvellous Le Velvet art gallery, on the St. Mercy Street, no number.

Its mazy corridors, decorated with darkened yellow walls, were perfumed with a soft woodened cherry fragrance, which slowly lures the visitor into strolling its beautiful pieces of human body illustration. The noir setting and the old cabaret music played on the background completed the perfect scenario for an avoidance illusion – for a physical, sexual illusion, where all one has to do is to close their eyes and let their senses be taken aback entirely by the colours of the touch.

The mid-aged courtesan, head of the Gallery, a voluptuous woman, dressed to the occasion, lays at the end of the eastside corridor, smoking an old cigarette and drinking cheap martini, with an effusive smile stamped on her old, wrinkled face.

Facing her figure, I could not bear it, nor understand it all.

So I rushed towards her and instinctively, without taking a bow or showing any respect, I shouted:

What about the candies and the flowers, the words and the flirting?

C'est tout parfumerie! She laughed sarcastically.

I contemplated her complacent smile for a couple of seconds and then hanged my head down.

I know who you are, mon cherie, you have been circulating through my art gallery before, she said, to my surprise.

How… how come…

There is a war you are fighting back home, I know, but it is no place neither moment for such, she then moved close me and whispered, should the moment take you, mon petit garçon, you know how to behave alright.

I mumbled a few words before just concluding: I hereby declare my acceptance.

As if there was anything else one could do! She laughed, before muttering meow and vanishing into the satin curtains that surrounded her bed.

My eyes turned red.

Painting after painting, I made contact with the warmer styles of art.

State-of-the-art.

Thou art my shallowest dream.

Time ticked fast and roads kept being crossed, to several excuses and appointments, what would clearly avoid me from heading further on my personal endeavours.

On an waiting room, for example, I faced enemies and felt obviously defeated just by the simple sight.

That was hardly something to worry about at that point, I thought, "for there is no big goal to be fought after".

As the magic island was reached, that was the mantra echoing in my irresponsible mind.

It was heard, it became my destiny.

And to my misery, I became a simple tourist.

Weeks later, on a luxurious setting, I was, again, the mere visitor, knocking every door of those corridors.

The art gallery kept changing its pieces, but the admiror was, still, the same freedom fighter who hereby speaks.

On a row of shades, I was experiencing unknown inner aspects of me, never before properly explored.

Such a sense of accomplishment and self-discovery, completed with something akin to an overwhelming ego boost, tempered, however, with the worst of the timings.

Another day, another schedule to be met, more and more enemies to be fought.

And as the sweet perfume of lust vanishes away into the air – either by heavenly grace or by my subconscious mechanisms –, love reveals itself as a long past dream, that will echo in the dark of every night.

I am back home.
The time bomb is still set.
The clock keeps ticking fast, way too fast.

Routine has been a constant conflict between dreams/projects and my inner self. More to the point, I have daily been trying and pacify the conflict between the screaming future and the attention-demanding present.

I am a child after all, who need to pave his own way and, still, cannot let the youth leaves fall with the ending autumn.

A one-card player.

A single game match.

Flying around me, there is all this excessive information to be absorbed. On the technical field, this is hardly an issue - just part of the game and a struggle against the time. My deeper deals, aka the undergrounds, they are the messy piece.

Perhaps, I will only be able to step into the future once I have my present sorted.

Or – and this is the thesis I am fighting for – I need to keep striving ahead so as to smooth down the rough edges and get the issues slowly evanescing into a long past fog.

This is my fight.

This is my art.

Cheers!

X