1.1 | Lost & Found

ii. ramen

I N D I G O

When they say life is the art of dying, they're not lying. I have died a thousand times in the sixteen years I've lived on this planet. The first time I died was when I was three and realized that I had no father to take to the father's day celebration at kindergarten. Another time was when my mother came over hungover and told me I was a mistake. She locked me outside our small apartment till 3 am. After she was sober again she profusely apologized a million times. But a drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts.

And eventually, I stopped hurting altogether.

I immersed myself in art and music. And I can proudly say today that art is the only thread keeping me sane from the poison that we call life. I didn't find art. It found me instead. People forget that Monet had to grow his flowers to draw them first. Hiding is how I cope. It's how I deal with unwanted emotions. Note that unwanted emotions turned to emotions as a whole over the years. No matter what time of day it is, there is always going to be something to hide from. So being silent isn't a conscious decision. It had stopped being one years ago.

So when I came back home, I retired to my room and locked the door behind me. I stole a glance at the clock. I always return home late into the night, spending my days whiling away time in small cafes where I can grab a snack or in a Library where I complete my homework. Wouldn't want to be a bother to Mom. I am just an unwanted burden. Considering the number of years I've been following this routine, I'm pretty sure every librarian in the city knows me as the quiet girl who spends her afternoons and late evenings in the darkest corner of the library while suspiciously eating M and Ms.

The thing is, I love the way the peaceful calm settles over me as I sit in the quiet libraries or cafes. I welcome the silence. Silence replaces the words. And words have the potential to make or break someone. Unfortunately for my case, words have broken me many times over.

We deal with so many things in life, but our heart beats on involuntarily, making us suffer the brunt. Such a flawed thing it is, the anatomy of the human heart. A wall built of strong muscle, yet a frail organ that can take someone's life. I sit on the edge of the stool, thinking about my art assignment that I am working on, now that I'm done with studying for the Biology test tomorrow. I think I'll paint the drowning sun, as it dips low over the harbor. The sky is turning a few semitones darker with every passing minute and the horizon is the color of liquified gold, slowly spreading out into Midnight blue.

Indigo.

The color of the sleepy sky just before the moon comes out to take on its night shift. The last, most frequently forgotten color of the rainbow, yet without it, the rainbow seems incomplete. Indigo, the camouflaged color of the sky. Indigo, a sixteen-year-old girl, trying (and struggling) to make it through life. Indigo, a girl who had to grow up to fast.

I dip the delicate paintbrush into the glistening water. These paintbrushes are my finest and possibly my most expensive possession. I worked two months at a diner to get these. Tough times those were, going from school to the diner, reaching home late, only to find mum either passed out in the bathroom or yelling profanities out the window at random people on the street from the balcony. One could say that I was childish, leaving behind mom at home, just to earn money to get a paintbrush. But art is my purpose. The world doesn't let me raise my voice at it, so I paint instead, portraying my thoughts and ideas onto a colorful canvas.

It's like art helps me find the colors where the world has left me grey. When it comes to art, it is important not to hide the madness. When it comes to art, you can be wild free and explore every part of the canvas.