Empty Canvas

I wander down the long empty corridor looking at the  canvases hanging on the wall. Canvases that tell tales of the days gone by. I regard with thoughtful eyes the cluttered images, the sombre colours, the mysterious lines and shapes that have been used to capture a slice of history that I have figured in. A record of my  trampling of a wild and free soul. And I wonder where the moments of brightness are hiding in all the dark clutter that I see.

I stare at an empty canvas, and suddenly an image of a large open-air theatre appears and slices of the past jump out into my mind. I mentally fill in the rest of the painting. I can see now and almost feel the energy that had once burned great holes in my being. I can see the chaos and the accompanying frenzy that went into the long hours perfecting an act. The mad moments that regularly derailed   ongoing rehearsals –  like the nonsensical finding of strange alligators in teacups. Or getting ants drunk on cheap wine. All that mad energy, the chaos and all the gut-wrenching hysteria that would somehow finally, almost magically, result in a perfect act onstage in front of an adoring audience.

And then my mind wanders back to where it all began.

You had walked into my space, chaos spilling from your emerald robes, rattling my vacant skull, and shaking the very pillars that were holding up my empty, confused mind. It was not as if I had needed the chaos, I probably could have managed without the turbulence. But I would be lying if I didn’t say that blowing me away then was probably the best thing that you could have done in a long, long time.

Infinity is vague. Love is crazy. And somewhere in between we had survived.