Never working on art, finished paintings are not to be seen.
Is it fear lurking beneath?
Research spirals into endless ruminations, masquerading as progress.
Waiting for the “perfect” conceptual depth; perfectionism masks fear of public judgment.
Hiding behind “multiple paths” to dodge the terror of committing to one signature body of work. Years go by and the mid-life crisis threatens.
Category: Pscyhe
drowning in theory
colour of pain
Is it purple, like bruises that refuse to heal, burning within
Or red, sharp and alive, gushing from broken heart.
Like grey, a heavy cloud of melancholy that fogs the mind
And when it settles, perhaps it turns to brown,
the shade of what remains after,
memories etched deeper than the wound itself,
traces of what we’ve lived through.
And when it all ends, the tears dry and harden into earth,
a dark soil from which a new day arises.
Epitaph
Weep not nor relent
My life to you was only lent
In love we lived, in peace I died
You asked my life it was denied
Grieve not nor to sorrow take
But love my children for my sake
–
From an epitaph on a tombstone of Teresa D’ Vaz, wife of a heartbroken man, Andrew D’ Vaz. Aged 26 years, she left him too early with a wound, a void and children who remind of her. They entered into a covenant, till death do them part. Yet death separated them.
The gravestone made in 1889, stands remarkably intact here in Our Lady of Good Health Catholic Cemetery, Cuddapah. It has withstood the test of time through generations, standing among the graves of brown men and women. Carved by undertaker/sculptor, Samuel Mullenex from Bangalore.