A painting of time

The moon when it is a quarter gives its light. When we look closely enough we can see the full moon in the background, like a child waiting to be born, a song waiting to be sung, a match waiting to light a fire, something that is and yet is not. It is in the passage of time that the absent become present, that the unknown are born. It is also in the passage of time that the present become absent, that the existing, like autumn leaves fall away and die.

Words are just words that at some point or another every wise man have attempted to define. The same goes for time with the endless proverbs, quotations, poems, philosophies on it. Yet none of them satisfy us all, for one man’s life, thoughts, passions can never be the same as another’s. What difference is there between time and life? Is time not the only thing that the living have, or have not? Is to run out of time not to run out life? A part of me says it is, until I look up at the trees waving slowly as if to dance gracefully, mocking me, belittling me with their height. A part of me says it is until I see the sun shining, knowing that it will set and rise again tomorrow, and I will still be sitting here beside Anthony’s grave, mourning alone. And nature will not stop, no, the trees will not stop waving for a second and the sun will not stop shining at least to acknowledge Anthony’s exit. When I leave the graveyard I will dip my feet in the running stream and it will cool them as if to console me, as if it cares for me. But I know that it does not because when my time runs out, the same stream will not stop flowing to mourn me, just as it is not mourning Anthony.

Just as I predicted, the sun is setting, the trees are waving a little more, maybe not dancing this time but beckoning frantically, stripping me of the comfort of the heat and leaving me cold. As cold as Anthony’s face when he was possessed by anger, that anger that made him cruel. Cruel enough to want to destroy me, cruel enough to leave me broken,  cruel enough to slit his own wrists and lie in that cold bath just to destroy me. The first star appears, bright and gentle as my Anthony’s eyes when they were filled with tears. They said “I’m sorry”, they said “save me”. The next star appears while I am still looking at the first one, then the next and the next after that. I can’t stop them no more than I could stop the blood oozing out of Anthony’s wrists. I can’t stop them no more than I could stop Anthony’s time from leaking out of his clock, I can’t stop them no more than I could save Anthony’s life. My tears begin to flow endlessly as the stars have now filled the sky. They say “I’m sorry”, they say “I loved you”, they say “How could you?”

My body shivers from the sobbing and from the cold. My skin feels rough as sand and the wind will not forgive me. It rages on, it hurls and whimpers until it starts to fade from my ears. My eyes are heavy, my hand is weary, I can’t write anymore…

I open my eyes now. There are no more stars in the sky but I cannot see the sun. The trees are as still as British guards, still as if listening to me breathing. In the stillness I hear nature weeping, mourning, I hear nature acknowledging Anthony’s exit. I hear her and I am grateful.

I stand up and the tears won’t flow from my eyes anymore. I know that from now on, the tears will flow from the inside where no man can reach. No man but the memory of Anthony’s laughter and Anthony’s sparkle, the memory of Anthony’s time and how too soon it ran out. I won’t cry those tears alone; I cannot define his time alone. I will paste it on a blank paper and on that paper I will paint my tears in alphabet. I’ll paint Anthony’s heart, I’ll paint his life…I’ll paint his time.