Moshi moshi? Please bear with my wrong grammars. I always got this chaotic mind whenever 12 am hits the clock.
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"I had my life. It was indeed an art and he was a great artist. My life was just black and white and his was in different colors."
They say that life is a living work of art and I believed it simply because my life was once a chromatic one.
My childhood was filled of different hues. I see the world as a masterpiece and I could stare at it forever. The way I danced with the swaying grass while I am humming the lullaby she used to sing for me. The way my friends and I played with mud while the sky is gray and crying. The way we climbed the talls trees with our small feet and tiny hands at our house's backyard, reaching the yellowish mangoes that would fill our roaring stomach for an hour.
It was me – who only see life with rainbows and unicorns.
And the way I see it from before is different from now.
Growing up.. I often see my mother's eyes swollen. In our dark room, she would always try to hold her tears, afraid that I might hear her muffled cries. But that day.. I used up all the courage I stored to kneel in front of her and while wiping the drops of blood at the side of her lips.. I can't help but to cry with her as it really scares me when I saw my thumb with red and when her cheeks are turning into purple, only to found out that they were bruises. There are scars on her white arms that I didn't notice back then because she is always wearing her black cardigans.
My father is an artist and he sees my mother as a plain canvas. I saw him holding a knife, carving his so-called-sculpture on my mother's bare skin. Then I saw him holding a scissors, cutting my mother's long hair, told me that my mother's black and silky hair was near perfect as his paint brushes. He collected my mother's blood and used it to color his almost finished artwork called as poisonous apple.
And it was the other me – who only see life in storms and hurricanes.
He finally finished his first artwork.. at the cost of my mother's life.
My father said that life is a living work of art and I can't do nothing but to believe him when I saw my mother's flesh in an art museum, with closed eyes, thin lips, chest opened – inside it was her heart that turned into a bloody rose.
- catharsis
