Destroyed painting

Today I painted a painting that did not want to be what I wanted it to become

It often happens to me to have an idea in my mind

I can’t execute on paper, as my hand obeys its own whims

I usually add layer upon layer of paint until I’m more or less satisfied with the result

even when it has nothing to do with my initial inspiration


Today however after rinsing the painting and still finding it ugly

I decided to destroy and throw it and I acted upon that

it was such a weight to see this unachieved painting staring at my face

occupying space in my room, space in my mind

I threw it and decided instead to tell its story, the story it could have told but didn’t want to tell

The story it told, but I wasn’t ready to accept


A desert stretches endless, boundless plains of ocher sand till under the horizon

a river snakes and meander in between that plain

its waters are warm, even hot and they carry swirling particles of sun

on the river banks sprout trees and reeds and grass of light and dark green

contrasting with all the blazing yellowness around


Pyramids of sand reach toward the sky and a strange smoke curls from their tops

they are the place where the sandstorms are first born before reaching the sky and obscuring the sun

and falling down on earth like a blinding wave, the desert reclaiming the lands all around

There’s another kind of smoke rising from the river and the vegetation

one made of tiny living particles of green and blue that clash and intermingle with the smoke of sand

There are other varieties of smoke that stem from and hover the desert

perhaps a hidden underground oil field that is signaling its presence

and soon it becomes a cacophony of smokes, of colors, of voices

and I feel my mind trembling and stalling because of all this noise

and the paper under my hands becomes a source of distress

as it mirrors how badly oppressed I feel within

Instead of alleviating my suffering and my loss

my painting accentuate them

by mirroring this harsh truth for my eyes to see


Destroying a painting, a frozen picture of myself

means I still don’t love entirely myself, I still refuse parts of myself that demand to blossom and flourish

and then petals will fall and seeds will be formed

and when the rain touches again the dried soil

new plants will sprout bearing the fruit of wholeness within their roots and their stems