GAIETY

He asked me what brings me joy

And I didn't even have to think

I smiled, as I could feel fervid

Thinking about what sparked joy inside me made me feel the fire burning inside me

As if I was filled with a sudden urge to do it

I am an artist, I told him

And he asked what kind

 And I told him that I was the kind of artist who found inducement in the slightest of muses

I could look at a tree and write about how its branches and intertwined roots remind me of family

I could feel the wind and write about how it saddens me that the burden it carries is more than it should bear, the secrets and the baggage, yet we never appreciate the wind

I could look at a coffee cup and draw myself drowning in the dark liquid, breathing in the sweet roasted bean and ambrosial smell

I could look at a sunset and paint the colors of a lazy Sunday afternoon

I was the kind of artist that incessantly and obsessively created masterpieces

Because my mind was arie

My thoughts poured into my arms and all I could do was beget more and more children of my art, like a madman

Because with every word, with every shade, with every stroke, I felt alive

A feeling so vehement that it was beyond my comprehension

All I knew was that when I couldn't be an artist, I could barely breathe

And there was no worse feeling than that