July 4th, 2017
As I stand across the green and blue of Abbottabad, I feel my fingers tingle; I feel a need to paint; to let my heartstrings tug my fingertips and create art, in its surreal yet raw essence.
Lints of cloud cascade the skies, drawing nearer from their infinite distances to where I stand. My hair breathes in the wind. I know it is about to rain. But I want to paint a mural.
I sit crosslegged over a slanting concrete slab, unbottling a shade of crimson. I let the paintbrush guide me through; I have no mind nor need for the mural to look a certain way. The thoughts of expectations do not dwarf the paint blobs I make. All the way through, I know it is about to pour.
Even though I know of the clouds looming overhead, threatening to burst with rain that will wash my mural away, I continue to pour my heart and soul into a simple work of art, which albeit looks similar to one my toddler nephew makes, soothes the very aching corners of my heart.
The whispering wind now roars; the clouds are impatient, and will pour soon. I hear a steel door clatter against its frame, making music with the upcoming rain. As I finish painting in the last detail, I look above at the great heavens, and stood dumbfounded at the metaphor I just lived through.
Our lives entertwine with moments of making murals with our actions and choices. We are aware that time washes away art and everything else we do.
But in the brief moment between the clouds swaying closer and rain pouring, the mural becomes the most beautiful thing to be created, the most majestic moment lived.
All else is irrelevant.