Strokes and Colours

A story of an old tale ends, and new tale begins.

Birth. The starting point to any storytellers. The starting point of a canvas. As pure as any white can get. Not a single dot of impureness on its body. All to pureness perfection.

But the canvas is merely.. an emptiness of white. Nothing to show and nothing to tell.

The canvas is always ready for a story. Always waiting in open fold for any tellers of ink and colour.

Near the canvas, it sees many brushes and charcoals. Pens, pencils and powders stood near each other like lines of soldiers waiting for any command. Ready to serve. 

Beside them, colours and tones well lined to mimic any spectrum one can wish. “Your wish is our colour” they say.

The canvas stood there aimlessly, puzzling over the situation yet anxious for something that it did not understand.

And then it happened. An ink, green of colour splashed onto its body, reclaiming the pure whiteness it once entitled.

Development? Maybe.

Tainted? Who can say?

But neither you nor I can tell the difference. At least not yet.

The canvas was shocked to see the green coloured ink intruding the whitened sanctuary, for a while. But then the canvas felt like welcoming the fellow intruder to stay. The ink was still wet, fresh from wherever it came from. Some of it is dripping further down on the canvas. Destination? Unknown.

One intruder was welcomed. Then came another who wishes to join. And another… and another…

Due time, shapes and colour all joined together, occupying the former white sanctuary. All of them spilled to show what they can offer. None of them hold back of their talents.

Some have strokes of grey. Repetition to fulfillment. 

Some have fuzzy brush strokes. Blurs away into any path.

The white canvas is white no more.

Every inch of its pixels are filled with shapes and strokes of colours and greys. Every pores are stamped with layers and layers of texture. Carbons, dust and acrylic became permanent residence of the sanctuary, a companion perfect for substitution to the emptiness.

And now, now the canvas has a story. Now, the canvas can be the storyteller. The canvas has a tale of strokes and colours, only it knows best. After all, the canvas experienced it itself firsthand. There’s no storyteller the same as the canvas. No stories similar to it’s. No strokes and colours that have the same arrangement and composition as the canvas. Originality to its fines.

As the canvas stood proud, showing the tales carved in its own body to the world, it sees that many other canvases also stood with their own strokes and colours. Stood with their own tales that they themselves know best and none other could. Each with their own identity. Each with their own companion to their own former white sanctuary.

And just at the corner of the room, the canvas sees a new canvas. One which is still pure of whiteness and of no companion of strokes and colours. The one which is freshly been birth.

With little hesitation and a lot of hope, the canvas decides to help the newborn canvas to make way of its own path. A path that reveals the newborns own sets of tales. A tale that can flourish thru the clouds and outshine the other tales of canvasses.

It just needed a kick-start.

There, the story of the old tale ends, and new tale begins. There, a yellow-coloured ink has spilled to the newborn canvas’s body.

Share |

Concrete Walls

A four-wall room. 

That’s it. That’s where I’m in. There’s nothing there in that room. Just cold concrete walls surrounding an empty space. Securing secrets inside. Insulated from the uncertainty outside.

I heard a faint noise today. I thought it was just a lonely man’s imagination. But the noise keeps on going louder and clearer. It was laughter. Im not quite sure who own’s that laughter. But it seems innocent and pure. A laughter straight from the heart as one might say.  It was a woman, laughing behind these concrete walls. Im not quite sure how the laughter can penetrate these concrete walls. For all I know, these walls allow no intruders. I didn’t mind it thou. It seems as if the laughter can be a friendly companion for these lonely, cold walls. So I kept on listening, to that pure, innocent laughter.

I heard a faint noise today. Again, I thought it was just a lonely man’s imagination. But the noise keeps on going louder and clearer. It was a cry made by someone. It was from the same woman I once heard laughter from. That cry penetrated these walls and seeks companion, just as the laughter did.  It was a heartbreaking cry. I felt like I could lend that broken heart my companion. But I’m imprisoned here, bounded by these concrete walls. So I helplessly kept on listening to that heartbreaking cry. Hoping that whoever owns that cry could know that someone is here, in sympathy of her sadness.

I heard a faint noise today. Again, I thought it was just a lonely man’s imagination. But the noise keeps on going louder and clearer. It was a scream made by someone. It was from the same woman I once heard cries and laughter from. It was a horrific scream. The kind that makes you shivers in fear. Those scream penetrated these walls with ease. The echoes of the scream, was neither less terrifying. I was in panic. Knowing that the woman might need help, I try to shout. Hoping that the words came from my mouth could penetrate these concrete walls. But these walls were very persistent. I tried breaking these walls with my bare hands. Punch after punch, blow after blow, with all my strength. But it was worthless. These concrete walls were too persistent. As I drained my last strength, I fell to the ground. Shivering on the cold concrete floor. In fear, of her fear.

I didn’t hear any noise the day after. And so was the day after that. Weeks, months, maybe years have passed by. Still, no sound came to visit these walls. I still hope that a noise could penetrate these concrete walls once again, but the only noise I can hear was the sound of my own breathing. I wonder how long I will keep hearing this sound of my breathing. There used to be another sound that accompanies my lonely breathing. By now there’s none. Will this sound of my breathing fades away alone? I don’t know. 

But one thing is clear. My ears are always open, in searching for a noise. The noise that could penetrate these lonely cold walls, once again.

Share |

Grey Broken Bones...

I've sat there. In the middle of it all. Resting my bones while others breaking their's. Seeing, studying and absorbing their nature and idea.

"Fight Fight Fight!", they scream to each other. And fight they did. Some of them fight with lightning, while some fight with thunder. Unleashing their wrath to others who opposes.

"To whom shall i side?", I question myself. To whom shall I lend my strenghts upon and strenghten the forts of their idea?

I keep questioning myself, while resting my bones, watching them breaking their's.

Shall i side with the ones that raises the black flag, saying that one cannot measure true light without seeing darkness?

Or shall i side with the one who raises the white flag, saying that one cannot measure true darkness without seeing the light.

While i was busy watching the two sides crumble and tear one another, I began to look where im laying. I was in the grey area. Not too white. Neither too black.

There i was. Realizing it all.

Is it worth to question it the answer only brings to death?

Why shall i bring war to myself, when peace has already presented to me?

Why turn this sanctuary into hell?

So I keep on laying there. Resting my bones and ease my thoughts.

In hoping, that the ones who keep breaking their bones, would someday join me, resting their broken bones.

Share |