Portrait

I write infront of whom i describe. Wouldnt that imply I create a portrait? A portrait of words, just like the strokes of a painter. The painter defines how the portrait looks, of what features to highlight, what characters to impart. Its dangerous!

Here I sit infront of my life. Or what I thought would be more than my life. I have been granted that wish yes … the wish to endure what I presumed fundamental to my life.

But why do I feel scared carving the portrait. Painters sometimes are afraid of the portraits they create. Is it because they are worried they would reveal too much of their soul via the strokes of that brush ….. too much of their character in someone else’s portrait. Yes, they are afraid. But is that the only reason …. isnt there more?. The fear of creating a hopeful spectacle depicting brilliance. Hope not for the one portrayed, but the portrayer! Why then am I not supposed to dwindle!. Hope can be like a ray of light ….. the ray which might be visible at the start of the never-ending dark tunnel …. its just a trick of the mirrors anyways!

The portrait would be like the dream that came true, with just the scenic detail and none of the meaning. The hope that could never have been a nightmare, proven just that. You try to move on, and become happy. The hopes clear, the doubts disappear …. but one look at the portrait and you are back …. only to witness how much darker it can get. Your temptation to follow your ultimate hope, acting as inertia against an alternate path!

So I choose not to ….. to avert its perpetuity. Its brilliance still stays in my mind, memories! huh!, I should overcome the inertia someday when they are washed … not with alcohol but time.