How can anyone be so lonely deep inside her heart when all there ought to be is content? How does anyone fight such internal battle? An emotion springing so naturally from the soul yet is only ought to be shut down everyday for fear of being ungrateful? How can anyone be so blessed yet be so empty?
Who can grasp the heart of an artist? Who can decipher her soul? Who can stand being ignored over and over and over again by the thing she loves most yet hold on to the awareness of her own worth? Who can keep her sanity when all her thoughts never ought to be shared with another; when not a stranger, not a soul, all the more not a friend must hear her heart’s own cry?
Contentment, even love, is a choice; so who dares indulge the enduring void hidden behind the smiles, the laughter, the kind words? But if these feelings ought not to be felt, why were they ever planted there? Is not the farmer infallible? Is there a good reason for such secretly poignant feelings? Can gratefulness mask the longing? Or should it be wilfully shun out from being, in its entirety, without looking into the roots? Is it meaningless to let it linger?
It often passes. And crying often turns into careless laughter. Then hope the morning wakes her with all the feelings gone. When finally she’s shaped up to the mould of her hopeless situation, and she drowns herself successfully to the delights of the world, when the seemingly endless advantages of practical, uncomplicated life succeed; perhaps the uncanny thirst will cease. When that time comes, the world will see her more alive then she ever was. At that moment, the artist will die–all her passions buried with her.
Featured Photo by Madrid-based surreal photographer, Elena del Palacio