There is a painter in my room

She
paints
the stillness
of dusk
with her
gin-soaked
hair; she
sketches
streaks of
half-light
that cuddle
the cotton
in her pillows.
Her fingers
move on
the canvas
at speeds
set aside
for trees
to breathe
life into
psychic
plants; her
cheeks bloom
in penciled
shades as
folk songs
tiptoe behind
her tongue,
drunk on
melodies,
partially
glazed.

I wonder what we would think of ourselves if we were ignorant of the opinions that people have of us. Are we only focused on drawing reactions from those around us? Sometimes I think we obsess over it so much that we lose track of time. We find ourselves unaware of the courage and valor that we posses; ignorant of our own  shortcomings. We stagnate. Inching ahead, but in a circle. Pretty soon our health and our mind give up on us. Our supporters and soothsayers too.

When we die, we turn into statistical data. Reference numbers. Shriveled up fruits on a family tree. A mere name for our great grandchildren to lackadaisically utter  during family reunions. And then one fine morning, perhaps a little sunny with chances of showers later that day, someone references your existence in the known universe for the very last time. You are gone. Keyser Soze-d forever.

Thankfully, it is never too late to start living. Each of us probably out-swam 200 million others to get here. And we have one lifetime to feel good about ourselves. Sing under an actual waterfall, not your shower. Paint like you have never dreamed before. Write about that afternoon you spent with someone. Travel with your feet. And love like you want to be loved.

This little piggy was featured in an online literary magazine during their celebration of World Poetry Day in 2014.

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