Veil of Illusions
When Maya is alone in her room she can hear them. The yearning murmur and drone, the reverberations of the strings in spacetime. The clustered chords of matter and harmonic overtones of light coalesce and separate, tremor and shimmer in the bowing arc of Gravity’s touch. Fit to burst into hot infrared and trembling ultraviolet, she entwines the senses to spread across her common canvas. These latent, kinetic bubbles of energy are of the same kin as dew drops sliding through the veiny green of a leaf; a distant collapsing star could be the sister of blossoming magnolia.
This is the way her art works. The thread of illusion pulls those cosmic strings as a needle guided; her hand could weave between the golden shoulders of a deep glowing valley, or slide through glistening magma, turning and rising suddenly to twist and tie off at the tip of a waterfall. It could pull at the wiry fibres of skin and crackle within the dark marrow of bones to animate the body and draw it upward through the wash of her white stage.
She can drop down at the pool of impetus and lap at the waters of our common consciousness. She can stride through the universe as Shiva dragging fire and fury, smoke licking at the heels of Jupiter, or stroll through the cosmic fields of Andromeda as Shiva, caressing the black ink of the unborn and yet to be with wisps of lavender. Since her veil is our own, we can be shrouded within it through a single act of creation. Since she can see both what could be and weigh it the same as the never, she can absorb the entire world as her muse and carry the kiss of its inspiration through our fingers.
The sigh of our lives can be drawn up louder and louder to the roar of the strongest waters at the sign of her arrival, and when I see that she has left her room to come and meet me, with her veil whipping in the wind and concealing her darkly shining eyes and mischievous grin, I know the message for me will be the same as always.
“It is time to write”
