Our canvas was white. Untouched, pure and unassuming. We were both poets who didn’t know how to paint, we were better off in our lanes, we agreed. We hid behind the bravado of not being interested in Monets, Picassos, Da Vincis because we are above it. We were not. We dissected each painting that we came across, and generalised all of them. Thinking how outrageous it is to place such high value on intangible things. Little did we know, each was holding a tiny paint brush.
Things must have changed without us knowing. Suddenly our canvas wasn’t just white. It was light pink on the outer rim, and it got intense as it moved towards the centre. I could see the consistency and the thickness of the paint. It was even all around, and intense obviously. And I thought, this could very well be the painting that I would keep. That people would bid on. Perhaps for a moment, you thought so too.
As we filled in more of our painting, our song continued playing. It was all sorts of jazz, classic with your occasional blues. I didn’t give it much thought, or any for that matter. I should have though. I continued to pour my heart out onto the canvas, I forgot that it was yours too. It was quickly filled up by my brush strokes. Leaving little room for yours.
Then I took a step back and realised that yours were fading out. As if I painted red and pink over your dark shades of blue. I guess I might have done that unknowingly. I should have been less selfish and kept to my side of the canvas. I could have been more attuned to your needs. I should have listened to the constant blues you were singing whilst you paint. I should have taken it as an answer that you were perhaps not ready to paint.
You should have told me that you were not ready to paint. That you didn’t have the confidence to paint. That I was taking a lot of space in, supposedly, our painting. You must have thought that I’m selfish. Well, maybe I am.
In that spirit, let me be selfish one more time. Can I force you to paint with me again? Just to fill up the parts that I want to be filled. Just until the next painter comes along with their paint brush. Or maybe you were the selfish one. You were clearly holding onto an unwashed paint brush. Painting darks over my lights, hoping that my light will drown out your shades of dark. I hate to break it to you, but no amount of light can overshadow your blues if you don’t wash your paint brush.
In the end, our painting looks like a tragedy. A sad, beautiful tragedy. I still think that it’s beautiful. It’s just something that I wasn’t expecting. So, would you paint with me again? Or shall I wait for another one to bring a paint brush?
