Moving On

Phase 2: Shock

"The truth has become an insult."

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Half of a Yellow Sun

      Denying is all gone now, a week have passed and everything is over, but my system is in a total shock; we've been together for three years and now everything seems missing, no text, no calls, nothing. I just found out that he is my drug, my own version of ecstasy, and now I'm looking for him... craving for him - I would stare at my reflection creating a hallucination of an imagine that we are together; seeing his arms around me as we take pictures to immortalize in an album. I can't stand, I can't cope with what is happening to me, he has become my source of strength to the days of my weaknesses but now he is gone where can I find the letting go I am looking for to fix myself. In this times that I melt in my bed, room shrinking I found myself remembering the first time I met him... I never thought that I will fall in love with him in that day.

∞

May 4, 2012

      It was a beautiful Saturday morning; it was the day for my first art exhibit: one of my canvases caught an eye of a rising gallery owner and asked me if I want it to be placed in her gallery, as a young girl dreaming for her dreams to come true I said yes. I asked Samantha if she could come with but she declined my offer for she got some errands to do, as understanding person that I am I told her to burn in hell, as my goodbye. I fix myself, and dress myself as formal as I could be (I even bought this dress for this event) with white and nude hue mixed. An hour before the opening of the gallery I arrived with my canvas with me, I saw everyone busy fixing their selves or their canvases, and as I look at the huge place I saw him there standing by the stairs. He flashed a sweet smile and wave at me, I don't know what I found in him: he's not that handsome and not that hot, to be not called rude I smile at him... and that's that; just one smile and I turn my back on him and walk my way towards the gallery owner. At those time I wasn't thinking about love or romance, the thing inside my head is to be known as a painter and have scholarship for college, and so my focus at those times is just on my painting.

      Doors begun opening for our customers and critics to come in, crowd flows inside the huge space drinking wine and with every look I get is a critic, I didn't know that even painters get criticized. I stand by the side of my painting as I watch people pass by, I thought no one was going to stop by and understand my painting but a small group of fancy creatures took a spot in front of me and glued their eyes on my creation. It was as if they are having a hard time understanding it, I would have spoken up and explain it but I remember that quote by Plutarch: painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks. A painter should never speak to any single soul about the secret of her painting, and so I shut myself up before I could spill anything that could curse me to death. The fancy creatures started whispering to each other and after that smiled at me and left, I am having a good feeling about it.

      "A lady with red hair and wings with a mask covering her face, and she growing in a tree with fire burning around her - what kind of crap is that?" His voice is soft but his words are harsh, I turn to him as he defines my work in insult. "Excuse me?" A smile is formed across his lips, I have no time in being kind right now and so I raise my eyebrow at him as if I am stating wanna-mess-with-me-ish. "I'm Justin Salvatore," he introduce himself gesturing his hand to me to shake it and introduce myself, but he insulted my painting so: hell no! I being a snob rolled my eyes at him; he flushed red and scratches his head. "Marcel Duchamp once said 'a painting that doesn't shock isn't worth painting.'" And with those words I raised my eyebrows at him. "I suck at getting some girl's attention. You're painting do shock people."