You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...

-Walt Whitman



A promise hardened and eventually crumbled, its ashes carried by the wind that came from a mouth choking with lies. There was nothing I could do but to watch as the beauty I was holding disintegrate into non-being, and with it, the person I once was. I was the artist. It was my art. While you—You were the one thing where all the imitations came to life. And soon I was recreating a world that was made out of you—with that pristine smile, the smell of fresh flowers, the warmth of your body, the songs you sing hovering in the air we both once breathed. I sang with you till the end. And when the music finally ended, I still found myself singing.

The palette lay empty next to me. Stains permanently stuck on my skin, on the ground where I stood, on the walls where happiness used to hang. I was still living in this fake world, trying to expand it and make it as real as possible. But every attempt was futile because you… you were no different compared to these things, this world. I have forged everything from a beautiful imitation. And in the end nothing came out real. Behind it all, between the canvas and thick paint, there is nothing but an empty space. And that is where I am now. Looking at it, I feel hollow because no truth came out of what I did, except for the love I willed to accomplish my task. Looking at it all now, I feel ashamed. What an ugly world I have created…

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