Painting myself 

I will paint myself,

As an empty attic with secret passageways opening into the clouds of red, blue and green colour.
As a window sill, where a writer would sit and spill his ink onto the intricate corners as he would lean on to make love to his muse, to his diary.
As flowers, half blossomed, half dried, the ones with a never ending fragrance.
As the broken idols kept in the shrine, obscured by the others, the ones that nobody ever comes to worship.
As a briefcase, the one whose lock nobody ever tried to open.
As the frame of memories, shrouded by dust and dirt, over time.
As the half burnt, half damp journals.
As the candles, extinguished midway, not certain of what happened next to them.
As the broken china vase with blood staining its sharp edges. (Don’t know whose blood!)
As a clock with no hands, no idea of time and era and eternity and infinity.
As the candy floss packet that looks at me through the shop’s counter, the shop that I no more visit.
As the broken utensils in the kitchen, fungus and rust eating over them.
As the wardrobe which used to be my hideout, the one with the rats and spiders and lizards.
As a mermaid, lying among the woods of dark rainforests, leg over leg, waiting for wimba and mahogany to fall down someday and let this shimmery skin be burnt into the sun light, turning down in to the ashes.
Or perhaps, I will ask you to paint me as me and not look at what I painted of me, for I too would never look at what you would paint of me.


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