Palestwinians.

Epilogue.

"You silly little girl, you think you've survived so long that survival shouldn't hurt anymore. You keep trying to turn your body bullet proof. You keep trying to turn your heart bomb shelter. You silly thing. You are soft and alive. You bruise and heal. Cherish it. It is what you are born to do." - Clementine von Radics 

~ Video on the side of what Yasmine sings.

Epilogue - The Past and The Present.

Many, many years later...

I bit my lip and scanned my eyes over the various colours spread out on the palette. After much contemplation, I dipped my thin brush into the brown coloured paint and slowly began to dab the colour onto the canvas, every ounce of concentration released into the brush's movements. I paused after a few moments, scrutinising my work with trained eyes. I regrouped my thoughts, and formed a better visual in my mind of the scene I was attempting to recreate. It wasn't hard - after all, I was painting a place I had been to before.

A place of the past.

The past was a comical little thing. Naturally, humans easily bruise. Everything within our mind is inconclusive....and thus, we can never decide to hold on tightly to our past, or let it go, as if it was a ton of bricks weighing on our shoulders. 

I smiled, relishing in the joy of being able to sweep my brush freely against the canvas. The wet paint shone against the blinding white of the support base I was using. I picked up my knife and began to make scattered lines over the paint, highlighting and adding detail to specific areas. My fingers were splattered with varying colours of ink, dirty from being holed up in this drawing room for hours on end.

But...I loved it. 

Painting wasn't merely a mode of creative expression to me. Indeed, it was much more. It was during these times, as I sat on my wooden stool, my gaze drifting between the outside world and my canvas, cup of tea by my side and most importantly, my equipment laid out in front of me, that my happiest moments came knocking for a visit. Nothing of bitterness followed me here. 

As soon as the brush would hit the canvas board, reflections emerged and they'd be instantly drawn, a manifestation of my emotions, but more than anything, of my inspiration. It was during these times, the wisest of epiphanies attacked me, minute details that had previously been forgotten would make themselves known and the appreciation and preservation of the past would occur. 

When I was younger, I couldn't wait to be old. And now that I am old, I dream to go back to my youth. And such was the cycle of our thoughts. 

I continued to effortlessly dance my brush across the white material, waiting for the moment it would take place. On and on I went, until finally after ten minutes, I felt it. The familiar feeling of a flashback reigniting in my mind. 

I woke up sobbing, like I had been for the last few nights. I put my right hand over my mouth and turned away from Zach's sleeping form. I didn't want him to hear this.  I wrapped my other hand around my waist, feeling more vulnerable than ever. After half an hour of weeping until I felt completely numb, I couldn't take it anymore. All the pent up frustration, shock and confusion over the last few days had rendered me indifferent and so I got up and walked out of my room. 

As soon as I stepped foot into the kitchen, I picked up the nearest vase and threw it against the wall. It smashed and cracked into tiny little pieces, the glass flying all around the living room and over the lush ivory carpet. I was breathing heavily by this stage, my hand on my stomach. Tears were still silently running down my face, yet I made no effort to wipe them away.