This is for you who thinks you’re not worth it — but you are. Here’s to all of your blank nights, blank days and blank souls. Cheers! Let’s drink to all your sadness. All your lonely days, and your lonely nights. Let’s drink to all your misery; let’s drink to all our misery — all at once, all at the same time. Every time you think you’re alone, you’re not. I’m here with you, we’re here with you. Embrace the sadness, embrace the dark. There’s no light, there’s no happy ending. It’s just you and me; it’s just you and the rest of the world. Everybody is sad, there’s always something missing. Happiness is just around the corner, but you keep reminding me of what sadness feels like.
One, two, three different versions of me. They were all beautiful and they are all gone, done. The dead among the living, the dreams turned into shadows.
I miss being myself around you. I miss the jokes, the laughs. I miss the free version of me. I miss not having to control myself, and I miss listening to your words like music. One. You broke my heart.
I miss the butterflies in my stomach, I miss how you made me feel alive. In the Valley of Broken Minds you were my favourite creature, the only one who could show me light. “I wish you were here.” Two. There’s only darkness again.
I miss the hope, the possibilities. A new beginning that was dead from the start. Truth is, I never even wanted to want; I just wanted to be wanted. Three. I am alone and that’s just fine.
One, two, three versions of me walking around.
One, two, three versions of me dying a little as the days go by.
Blank. My defences were low and my emotions were running free, willing to create the most beautiful thing one would ever see. I started with the colours, not the shapes. Black and white to keep the basics, a very pale pink to give it some life, and the most beautiful bright blue in the world to make it deeply soulful. Once I had chosen the colours, I needed to choose the right brushes; and that’s what I did — I carefully chose each and every one of them. I opened the window and looked at the clouds; they were ready to witness what I was about to start. It took me a while to finally have the courage to start filling the white canvas with the colours, I won’t lie. It was the blue — yes, that blue — that gave me the push I needed. The brush in one hand, a hot cup of coffee in the other; I was unstoppable. “Why not?”, I asked myself, while visualizing in my head what I desperately wanted to become true.
Black. The movement was soft, tender. I could feel my heart beating as I stroked the white canvas with my modified brush — I felt powerful. “It can’t be that hard”, I thought. With the black I created the shapes; I created the most remarkable assets for mundane eyes. It was irregular, unique; it was special. Black, black, black. I took a sip of coffee; it was getting warm — not too hot, not yet too cold –, it was the perfect temperature. Black and white were finally blended; my creation had started to make some progress.
Pink. Just a little, not too much. A pale pink to illustrate the blood; flushed. Emotions, words, confessions, and silence; they all had the same colour. Pink, pink, pink. I left the coffee aside. The stains on my dress won’t let me lie; It was already a piece of art.
Blue. At this point I was a beast; running freely in the woods. I was myself, I wasn’t hiding; I was completely carefree. Happiness lies through details of life; that’s why I finished my painting with the blue. It’s deep, it’s hard, — it’s you. Blue, blue, blue. I couldn’t find my coffee. I closed my eyes and let it flow; the deeper I went, the further you go. Time was something completely obsolete, a stranger in my life. My painting was perfect, flawless. For one brief moment I was an artist, nothing could have stopped me; I had created a work of art.
Blurred. My excitement lead me astray. Pink and black, white and blue; all the colours got mixed up — a storm had started. At first I could only feel the droplets; they were silently invading my house and touching my painting with hostility. Blurred, blurred, blurred. I should have closed the window. Looking around, I saw my cup of coffee; something was telling me I might have left it aside for too long.
Blank. The storm had destroyed my painting; I could feel my heart pounding — I have lost it all. I knew I wouldn’t be able to recreate such beauty, not even if I tried a thousand times. Blank, blank, blank. I had a dream and it had vanished; I knew how beautiful it could have been, and that’s what hurts the most. I close my eyes and I can still see the blue — your blue –, what a daunting feeling.
My hands are cold, and so is my coffee; the excitement has gone away.
Stomach twitching, sweat and adrenaline rush. Basic symptoms we feel when we want to say something, but can’t. When we’re so close, yet so far. Morality is a pain sometimes. This is why we have songs, movies, books and blogs – to find some kind of relief. The best artists are the ones who created something from the things they’ve left unsaid. Desire, anger, disappointment, passion, heartbreak, platonic love, etc. These are the best unsaid feelings one could have in order to create something beautiful, something that will touch the hearts of thousands of people. My question is, why do we leave so many things unsaid? Morality is one of the reasons, but what else? Why do I keep all of this to myself? Why do we say “hi!” when we want to say “I’m crazy for you!”? Why do we smile when we want to cry? Why do we say goodbye to someone we want to stay? And why, oh why, do we have to deprive ourselves from happiness just to make other people happy? Morality and commitment, perhaps. I guess I will have to add this to the pile of unanswered questions about all the unsaid things.