The Paint Brush

The fire is settling down on the horizon and the journeys of eternities finally take a pause, just to start afresh. I suddenly think of the man who saw the first light. Did the cold rays made him jump with joy or they embarrassed him by revealing the secrets he was hiding? But my thoughts are veering again. What else can I do than just stand near my window and think. I think about the colours I used today. I have been noticing a pattern these days. I’ve been using more of red than the others... Red is both the colour of dawn and dusk, love and violence, hope and despair. These ambiguities keep my empty days busy. I think more of colours than people. I would fondle with a green in my room than taking a stroll in the park.. But why? Have the colours on my life’s canvas gone so out of hand that I prefer orchestrating them on paper? It’s as if I draw a plan every morning and fail it by night. But alas my pale thoughts drift into black.

These days I wake up with a pain in my head and surprisingly I go to bed with a deep contentment. The unknown day makes me tense and I feel safe in the darkness of night. I am thinking less about the people around me and more of the colours on the walls that surround me. As if they are closing in on me. And at the end of the day I relax, knowing that I survived another day facing those walls.

Although you would feel that all of this is stultifying, but I assure you that it’s not. It happens when you are unemployed for a time longer than a paint brush. And then the brush grows to keep up, to point where you forget the difference between time and the paint brush.

Shit I need a job...