Death of an Artist

She was wild and free yet mellow and comfy. She believed in all there was to believe unless it clipped her wings and prevented her from flying. She felt every feeling, shared her feelings, bled with them on paper and then donned them like her own shiny armour.

She saw people and wove stories about them in her head, crocheting patterns with vibrant colours, adding love and laughter and tears and pain in their eyes. She always wrote. She wrote in joy and pain, to let out and hide, to conquer and lose and to gather her thoughts and to let them go berserk. 

She stayed up on nights when the world was quiet to give an empathetic ear to her inner demons. The moon and the stars whispered in her ears when she corrected the grammar of the sentences that had been framed with a burst of emotion in her tender heart. 

She felt alive even when she was in depths of despair, because she felt all the pain through her art. When the days of joy arrived, she blossomed on the borders of the paper. 

However, even she was not immune to the dilemma of fate and time.

 As life changed its phases unlike the moon – there was only randomness in its manner. Those patterns were non-existent where she could have the belief that after every new moon, a full moon was in order. There were no crescents to pray to, no half moons to cherish, no anticipation of the full moon when only a quarter was hidden in the darkness of the vacuum. 

Life was full of new moon nights, where even the stars were crafting their betrayal. The darkness would often get frightening and soon her eyes which were always hosts to hopes and dreams, now started looking exhausted with sleeplessness. On the days when the moon would shine, even if it was a mere crescent – she would sleep in the comfort of the light. 

Thus, gone were the days she would stay up conversing with her demons and dancing with her angels, carving poetries with the moon and correcting the grammar of her sentences. The girl who felt everything and wrote everything vanished under the rubble of must-haves and must-dos. The darkness of life just like the new moon night, slowly extinguished the light that danced in her orbs. 

Soon, her art was the thing of her past. Of times before fate and time. And even when the moon-lit stars became more frequent in her life and she learned how to fearlessly sustain the new moon nights, she no longer lived in bubbles of emotion. She could no longer speak to her demons, or angels. Her eyes didn’t shine, she never felt alive. 

She lived. Of course she lived and oh boy how! She became the Queen of Darkness and a guiding light to the ones who had just entered the world of fate and time, those who still had light in their eyes and were afraid of the darkness of the new moon night. 

But she no longer bled on paper. She no longer bled. She didn’t need to. She was strong enough to propel without caressing her feelings. She preferred catching up on the lost sleep from the times she was afraid of the dark instead of staying up and creating art. 

Hence, as fate and time became life, the girl lived, but the artist died.