Juliet and Creativity-When the Paintings Get Depressed
O secrecy of the wasted tides, the wolves that have fallen in love and the deceiving smiles of August--there is no creativity but hate in each love letter. These days are getting filled with drunk verses, of crime that is humanity and expressions which are dead.
Someone at the end of the secluded street waits for me each day, asking of nothing but the same tragedy thrice. He asks and he condemns after a while, your religion Sir—I do not have one but a heart and a mind which wants to be freed.
Words are, and if there is anything left of it—sober paintings which are dead and depressed flowers which are filled with songs compelled into believing, society which is love and Juliet who will never let go.
Life is such a tragic little thing, out of dust and damp ashes, the sounds of midnight and the cracking of tender hearts—no one hears. Everybody is the same skin over and over again, and no one wants to be the non-conformant. It gets quite lonely, virgin hands and the sedated minds—betrayed of love and creativity.
Juliet always loved him until she met another man. Now the birds do not sing anymore and the nights are nothing but a poetic misery. One is held beside overwhelming thoughts, of life that has no purpose and each lung that is just an imaginary friend.
O look at the drift of the century, with no one around to console, and the torments of the bleak soil—they wait for us with blunt words. Your creativity is overflowing and so is their hate in each blank prose which is just another love song like Juliet.
I want to question the art of merry, pathetic gestures beside frenzied paintings—and the paint of white wishes, they lie here like nobody cares. And it is the truth after all. All that each skin wants, opportunities to stab us before we even start with the little painting running inside the mind like there were an electrical faultiness being inserted each new second—in such endless loop.
My heart is an empty shell, deprived of creativity and consciousness, the wishes of a seventeen year old virgin, and the promises made by Juliet who said that she would never let go. Now dripping and dancing, roses of purple feelings and the empty casket filled with so many paintings—ones that no one ever saw.
O look at my face, mirrors which are an imposter and my fingers—melodies which are dead. As I continue to fade each new second, of time which is a lie and the promises which are meant to paint Mona Lisa. But Lisa and Juliet are the same. One pour’s kerosene while the other—toxic frangipani’s over the naked body.
Lost in art, let him paint his last act, of life that is so unfair and creativity which is always stabbed with conditional erasers.
-Yogesh Chandra