0:28 AM,
Light from the streetlamp pours in
through the window,
projecting the bars of the steel casement
on the white canvas of the wall;
where the bars of the casement ends,
the painting on the wall begins.
This farce, resembling a portrait,
tirelessly repaints itself,
unconcerned about an audience.
There is an obtrusive tree outside,
the leaves of which
become obedient ghouls
of the imposing streetlight
night after night,
and its shadows superimpose
on the checkered wall painting,
dancing back and forth
to the whims of the wind,
seemingly similar to the hand
of an accomplished master,
hand that paints not from sight,
but from vivid memory.
I lie down on my bed,
and dutifully witness
the same drama unfold
every night, worrying about
my insomnia,
the futility of that worry,
and getting caught in a vicious cycle
of anxieties that cause anxiety.
As the darkness of the night
fades away towards dawn,
the chiaroscuro art
of light and shadows
evanesces into the void.
This art will sustain
the test of time,
passionately succoured by
the inanimate object,
and the tree that will outlive me.
Even after vacating this house,
during moments of anxiety,
I will forever remember,
the painting that showed up
every night, without fail.
In the shadows of my reminiscence,
I have painted a similar piece,
clumsily imitating —
my fears and tears,
heartbreak and insecurities,
the lump in my throat,
and the knife sticking out of my heart.
The cheap forgery in my memory,
shall remind me
why I chose to live,
and why I chose to fight.
It shall remind me,
that light shall come,
sooner or later,
and the brightness of the light
shall evanesce the sadness
that has commandeered my heart
into the void of voids,
and like the painting,
I shall show up every day,
battered and bleeding,
but alive.
