Life In a Gallery

By Gabriel-Vlad Crisu

Once I saw vibrant flames of endless red,

Raging oceans of aquamarine, waves of pearlescent foam

In vibrant Sfumato.

I long came to accept that such a vision was but a mirage,

Like heat upon sandy shores, creating deceit for the mind’s hope

And comfort.

An oasis of my mind created as a shield against the monochrome truth,

That life fails to align itself with the goals set, that good and evil coexist in

Chiaroscuro.

We pick away at the layers, one by one, attempting to imagine what lies beneath,

Like toddlers, curiosity is a driving force of all those who claim to be selfless.

Life’s Sgraffito.

Remorseful in discovery, we retract to the sanctuaries we build of hope,

Friendship, lust and love in the belief that problems fade amongst them -

Fool’s Comfort.

Only for them to rise once more to the surface, creating line-by-line of leaping

Sorrows and hurts, which serve only to compile further self-doubts and loss.

Torturous Impasto.

Perhaps the truth we all seek to find is a lot less bold than Chiaroscuro,

it lies somewhere between the hues, yet more simplistic than Sfumato

A brilliant Grisaille.

Too often is life seen as the crux of beauty or pain, perhaps it is less than both,

A more pallid thing, teetering between the edge of kind and wroth, deceit and truth,

Comforting discomfort.

Perhaps it is the fault of we few whom create this blurred line of beauty and ugliness,

Were it not brought to thought, it couldn’t exist, and all would be great, joyful, and yet

Without Technique.

Life’s a gallery of thought and feeling, of action and reaction. Each moment painting

Depths of emotion, in vibrant hues, or bold lines or even barely artistic brushstrokes.

Acceptance,

That life will never be something set, each day will bring about a new canvas,

Paint with it in Love, in pain, in loss, Cry your tears of technicolour, smother them in

Greyscale.

And be not afraid when the canvas rips, for it will, the curse of every artist,

Suffer alongside it, mourn in every little broken thread, each imperfection, for that

Is art in truth.

By Gabriel-Vlad Crisu