I am not art

Goodbye

To the artist that use to be who I was for quite some time...

You served me well. You fueled all that could be. A true patriot of art rhymes and turbulent stormy clouds of ideas. Putting all that made the world a pile of complication and the human condition a window into the unknown. What a great run we had. Body and soul, mind and heart, through a lens so thick you could see right into the brightest ephemeral supernova brush stroke.

Red as the smoldering molten of oil paint. What a romance it was. Your now as dry as the plastic pallet in the attic catching dust. A scratched out record of sorts skipping beats and words to one of my best compositions. This is not an artist statement. I don’t challenge the neo-colonialist battles of a young Muslim Woman. I am not redefining all that was once laid out by the invisible forefather gods. No grand scriptures to burn down and build modernistic landscape of representation. You are a shadow of who I thought I was.

An ode to my artistry you are a beautiful memory.

I am a servant to conformity. I am a master of self-righteous trickery a Professional in the making. I am now somebody and you are wannabe. 

What a sad state we’re in. So when I pick up my brush and mark down some paint on a canvas I think of you fondly. What would I say to my future self? Get ready because your not going to like what you see.

Maybe I need to empty out my head? Coming back to Pakistan did me good, right? I want to be settled in this life. This is confusing. You’re here when I paint. You’re here when I think about painting. You’re here even when I don’t want to paint. Why can’t we part ways already? Why are you still hanging around the corner of my eye watching me waste away?

Should I write a resignation letter, file a complaint and make some sort of announcement that I don’t want your hard-earned paycheck.

But sadly your not some newly acquired position of employment your not a short work experience in my resume. You don’t come running after me with a warning letter backed by an empty attendance sheet.

You’re a companion. A champion of thought, a skillful magician you bring out the lines on my palm. Stuck in transit, this artist heart of mine is not completely dead after all.