Al,
I’m sorry if I stopped waiting on you…
Sunday morning when I learned to paint stories on the wall. And my hands were always covered with paints and chalks. Butterflies started emerging from my walls-- the same specie I felt flying inside when I first met you.
You arrived at that point of my life when the world was covered with black and white, of lost pigments and broken paintbrushes. I should have told you that you captured my eyes from the moment I saw you in that museum gallery, even though aesthetic paintings were hanging on the walls.
You showed me your collection of masterpiece, your own gallery, crafted well and beautifully painted. Some were scenes and some were faces of people. They were all painted with the same colors: green and orange. You told me it was the best combination. You introduced me to the statue you carved and I told you she was beautiful. You told me her story. How she was separated from her partner because he was displayed on the other museum. You told me she was willing to wait for him until he knocked on that door. You told me how art poisoned your veins and how it was going to continue killing you. I didn’t get that at first, but then you explained to me why. You said art was your only form of expressing and you felt relieved every time you made one but at the same time, you felt like it destroyed you. You told me of the unwritten stories lurking inside your paintings, of unforgotten people and how they’d continue to haunt you. But you couldn’t throw them away, because they’re the only things you had. You gave me your drawings of me and told me it was the greatest masterpiece you’ve ever done. And I know what I’ve felt that time was different-- I really wish you just told me yours.
I’m sorry if I stopped waiting for you.
I’m sorry I stopped painting stories on the walls. And my hands aren’t covered with paint and chalks anymore. All those butterflies? I already set them free. They’re growing old; some of them are dying, some already did, and their bodies are decaying. And so are my feelings for you. I’m sorry if I burned all your drawings of me, knowing I would just be another painting on your wall. I’m sorry if I erased all the markings of your name from every masterpiece you’ve made, because I don’t feel like you own them at all. You told me I was the greatest art you’ve ever done. I forgot you’ve already said that to another painting before. I’ve realized green and orange do not always make a perfect combination, and besides-- colors may fade. But black and white, apparently, do not.
I really wish I could forget how you look like. Your freaking blue eyes and contagious smile. And that navy blue trench coat. But I can’t. Because every time I close my eyes, I would see that funny little boy standing in the centre of the art gallery, smiling and looking at me. Then I’ll realize none of them were real, because you’re just another cold statue enticing me and that your heart is as hard as the marble you were made of. I don’t even know if you have one.
But let’s face it, you really are a great artist, Al. You showed me a place so different and beautiful, I can never get it out of my mind-- and so are you. Yes, I can’t forget you. But you’re just a messed up being, fooling people with your twisted lies, broken canvas and your moving statues and still people will think you’re beautiful. I don’t even know if what you’ve felt for me was real, or am I just another victim you’re going to paint and display on your wall? But you know what’s the hard part? It’s that what I’ve felt inside was real and I have no idea how am I going to get rid of it. You’re stuck inside my vein like my own blood vessels.
I thought about the statue you’ve made. And how she’s going to keep on waiting. I thought about her as me, waiting for you to knock on my door again, hoping that someday, we could paint stories on walls again.
But I’m not like her. I’m not going to wait forever knowing you’re not going to do the same.
I wonder if you’ll paint our story. On that blank canvas that has been waiting to be touched again by the callous hands of yours. I wonder if you’ll paint it with green and orange. And if you’re ever going to hang our story on your wall so people could see it and it’ll be added to your collection. And they’ll get amazed again, without having an idea that behind those colors and lines were once a tragic story of us, because all they know is that it’s beautiful.
Yours (Although I never really belonged to you),
L
Written by Louise Bayobo
Photograph by Jan Perry Estocado
Managing Editor twitter: @louisebayobo98
Louise Bayobo instagram: @thedaydreamer1878
A distressing damsel who wrote her own eulogy
Contributor
Jan Perry Estocado
A quite optimistic and approachable person
Who's passionate about photography--
I enjoy capturing images that showcase
the best out of any subject I choose
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