A little white butterfly visited me earlier this afternoon as I was sitting quietly underneath the shades. I was waiting for the car engine to warm up a little. I needed to wait for as long as it takes to finish a cigarette. And out of nowhere there was this little butterfly floating lightly around my feet frantically searching for something.
It looked as if it was searching for a missing pendant over the dark green grass underneath this tree. But it went a little jolly and circled other areas in no specific pattern. It was floating about alone.
What did you think it was looking for?
I would like to think it has no particular purpose. Flying about crazily keeping me occupied.
You did that best, liyana. Going around doing things keeping my attention all focused on you.
You liked arts. You studied art history. And when you were in France, you took a photo standing next to Venus de Milo. I called her Aphrodite. I studied Greek mythology awhile back and I was more inclined to believe that they have Greek origin. Their penchant for drama and boisterous intelligence seems to conform well to the famous ancient Greek poem Iliad.
You had a bright and sunny disposition as always in that photo. Shoulder- length hair and yellow canary bag underneath your arm. You were evidently ecstatic standing next to the missing limb statue.
You identified with her, the Aphrodite, didn’t you?
I hated Greek god and goddess. After I studied the series of mythology, I found them all flawed and purposely created for crude and primal entertainment. Most of these gods or Greek heroes were morally corrupted. Their tales were sickening. A notorious product of a decadent society.
But I was being irrational, you said. You appreciated arts. You loved the technical details of sculpting, chiseling, the perfect lines of human proportions, the strokes of brush, and the colours that sway on screaming canvas. It was the know-how that you delved into. I, on the other hand, looked right through it and dismissed the little details that made up the bigger picture.
Arts are supposed to mesmerise. One should find himself wildly engaged and bound by the painting. I was searching for its soul. Attempting connections. And most of the times it disappoints me.
There was this one time when you visited a museum in Berlin. I believe it was Jewish Museum because you talked about holocaust when you described it later. You were telling me about these blocks in the museum compound that was arranged in significant grids and sizes to create some sense of loneliness when you stand in between. It was to depict the fear and hopelessness that the prisoner felt in those infamous death camps. I think it was something along that line.
I listened as you described how you stood in between those blocks and how you emphatised with the surge of loneliness that it created.
I wanted to hold you then. I didn’t think that at any time you should ever be allowed to feel that way regardless of museums of any kind. I didn’t want you to feel alone in this world or the next.
No, not even for a second.
Of course, to you it was simply an experience that opened your eyes. As usual for an enthusiast. And my immediate response was downright silly.
I said, ‘I do not think such days for you will ever exist.’
Unfiltered.Totally out of context.