An artist’s writing desk is a place of worship. Art is his only religion and muse his only god.
When I sit down to create art, I transcend time and space and am no longer contained within the bounds of my dull room. The mahogany desk I write on metamorphosis into a holy shrine, and I, a blind faithful of art, worship my muse like a mad priest.
Inky imprints into Bible (or Quran or Gita) transform unstained sheets of paper. A black and white photograph of my divine muse- my French Love– graces the shrine’s holiness. His existence is reason alone to write. If, at times, things go well and I spy no living soul around, I smother the photograph with kisses- that’s a ritual.
A flame dizzily lights my writing desk when darkness sets in. Frequently, a grey she-moth pays a visit and flutters its wings to waltz divinely with the yellow flame robed in blue.
Such are my muse’s yellow centered blue eyes- like golden fires of passion whirlpooled in sapphire oceans. And his being? Ah! If the wordsmiths had him for a muse, they could have overed Romeo or Heathcliff or Mr. Darcy.
That is to say- a distilled formula of all things good condensed into his mould.
And that, I fancy him more than he can imagine. If he were not what he is, I would have told him so fearlessly. Yet, if he were not what he is, I wouldn’t have told him so at all.
To add to my misery, the coincidence of birth has separated us with oceans. What is even more tragic is that he probably worships another goddess- writes of her and on her too: his love. Possibilities are he sees me as a frail hearted young girl and worst of all- as a harsh wave of constant annoyance in his smooth ocean of life. Long story short, I am in a woeful condition.
And despite all that, I want to hope against all hopes that I’m wrong. That things are not as bleak as they appear to be. That the universe has in store a love that could be…that just isn’t there yet.
So when fantasy and reality appear impossible to mingle, art does the needful.
Every night, when the world lulls to sleep, the artist within me wakes. What is not possible in this world to exist exists in between sheets of inky papers.
And thus, I have started writing a little something inspired by my muse. Things sometimes make better sense when let to bleed in paper. Perhaps because that gives us space to deal with reality or perhaps because some things are better off when spaced from reality.
The night hours, thus, witness the performance of rituals as I worship my muse, my only god. Ink flows, papers glow, candle lights and the she-moth dances with delight.
She is bewitched by the flame. Yet, she dares not dream of uniting with her love; else she will turn to ash.
And so, this she-artist must love his eyes of fire and ocean from afar, lest she will burn or drown.