Close from Far

I can see her face through my imagination, constructing it behind my eyes, through my memories, with my ideas of what I hope and remember combines to be.
I feel her eyes looking for me too; it makes the blood pump against my chest. Like my heart is searching for an escape, wanting to see for itself the canvas of this remarkable soul. Her soul is a gift. Rewarding whoever catches a second glance with rich inspiring notes filling every step, scream and surface.

Does she still exist?
When she paints her ideas, does it resemble me, even in fragments?
Am I in love with a synthetic woman or have I lost my grasp on reality by fabricating an image to quench my need for something I can’t touch?
My mind wanders over and over, showing me it’s power; not of a superhuman but of a human who needed to realise how the mind can create and feel simply by it’s own power and ideology, unprovoked and uncontrolled with no restraints forming a uniquely beautiful image rapidly like a wild beast breaking out of a cage.
It’s late, and it’s lonely, but my mind sees her, and has seen her before, and when I see her again, I’ll know. It will find a way, right?
It’s scary to think, what if I’m oblivious to my own lies?
Maybe I’m painting the lie to protect my everyday thoughts, consoling myself through ideas of what ‘could’ or ‘might’ happen, holding a match to chase the flame and search for the spark.

Whatever, fuck. I’ll follow these thoughts, vulnerably running into darkness with no clue of my surroundings- aimlessly following my hopes and memories and what they combine to be.

As I write, and re-write, and re-paint inside where nobody else can see EXACTLY what I see, I’ll try to explain to you. This madness sounds mad to you, but imagine it as an ever-changing collection of loops and flashes like a broken tape playing only split seconds of a film from all different scenes, understandable only to someone who has seen it many times before. Piecing together the flashes to create the entire picture. Ludicrous, isn’t it?

Until that picture forms, I’ll quietly keep my ideas and chase them to be truth; allowing myself the comfort of trying even if it appears too distant right at this very moment.
If I gave you wings, would you fly? Would you leap into the void knowing you could fly out? I guess it’s the same thing, because not everything that has wings can actually fly.

The beauty in the imagination is that what we all see behind our eyes could in fact be real and although nobody in this entire universe can see exactly how I envision or what my mind paints; that does not make it any less likely that it could be real. She could have the eyes I see and she could have a soul that inspires and warms others with kindness and beauty. She might not look the same right now, but one day she will be both physical and an idea, in thought and in touch, in front of me, and by my side.
So as I lay here trying to remember, trying to reimagine, trying to sleep; painting with a private brush..
I hope the only lying I’m doing is on this bed.

C.f