I was talking to this co-worker of mine today.

We were talking about fine arts and some literary works.
We were discussing on why people paint and write things.
He said it was because of adoration.
I guess that was partly true.
I mean, some people that adore things – does not necessarily have to be people – would make things and arts that resembles the beauty that they adore.
The other part was, because what they made came from their feelings.
They need something to express what they feel.
I mean, adoration is a feeling too, now isn’t it?
The feeling could be love, anger, happiness, hate, jealousy, and so on.

And then I remember the things that I wrote.
Yes, all of them are actually came from different feelings.
Feelings that I’ve described above, and more.

But, I guess, people are not art.
I wrote numerous times about me and her.
About how I wrote that she is art, the most beautiful art.
That her life is a poetry– that she is living a poetry, and she is the most beautiful living poem there is in this universe.
But, no.
People are not art.

And she, is not an art.


Dear Love,

There is nothing about you that needs a canvas stretched across a gallery.
Nothing that should be painted blood red like an open wound, or ice blue like the arctic, or green like the forest– no, you are none of those things.
You, Love, are not an art.
You are not a thing to be put up on a wall and admired for a moment by hundreds, or even thousands of people, only to be forgotten later when there’s another big thing, or another big artist with their beautiful canvas.

You are not something that catches people’s fancy to be bought and hidden away in the private collection of a wealthy collector, that only to be loved once in a while and caged in a luxurious room surrounded by magnificence and wonder.
Moreover, especially not to be shrouded in darkness in that golden cage.
You are not that thing that has no freedom, no life, or no soul unless someone is looking at you and allow you to breathe in for a moment with their gaze alone.
You deserve more than a fleeting glance, a cursive look, or a critical gaze.

Has anyone every told you that some things are too beautiful to be art?
You, you are not art, because you are more than art.

You are too much, too real, and too alive to be an art.
Oh art cannot bleed the way you do.
And art does not look like the sunrise– the early mornings, the sunsets, the night sky, the stars, or even the silver moon.

You are nothing static.
You are a breathing reflection of everything the universe has to offer– a song sung into existence by so much more than inspiration.
Think of it as something like this: it took six million years of evolution to build you, to bring you to this moment– so much more than any artist could ever spare for even the greatest of their masterpieces.
You are a multitude of majestic feelings, every single one, once felt, never felt again in the same magnitude– You are the millions of things that happen to you in your lifetime.

And no piece of art can boast of those feelings, or experiences.

No. You are not art.
You are human.

And that means you are galaxies and universes – my galaxies and universe – more.




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