The random colors of my life

I will never understand why. Everytime I look I see something different. There are times when I feel I should change it, other times it just reminds me of myself lost as a spot in the splatter of colors.

Maybe that is how I look at life: colorful but distasteful. The brush can paint, the hand can guide, but it can never be perfect or absolute. So maybe there is no point in painting it at all. It should just be left unchanged and maybe covered with mortal needs of life to give a feeling that its ugliness has a reason or try to hide its very existence.

There are strokes that define aspects. What aspects? Aspects of me and the reality that is, or aspects of that which should have been, or aspects of that which is not and I am happy that it isnt? I have no answer and no reason to find one. It does have a background, a purpose, a reason, something to turn back to if the colors of the foreground lie. Its the source that keeps it alive. Maybe its the source that is discolored and makes blemishes of sins and wrongs apparent.

I see small blotches which are relieving because they are big in number, but the larger strokes take away the limelight and I cannot see beyond. Maybe that is how people look at me? Maybe that is how I look at people.

There is one color that stands out and on top. It reminds me of all that has ended and all that will come to an end. It gives the true view of the source even though it has nothing to do with it. It is red.

Monalisa cannot add anything because she gets idealized only at midnight. The rest of the time she gives this hope that I will unravel the mystery that she and only she knows. I always forget to see her at midnight.

Another year, more realities, worsening human, restless soul, still uncertain and everything fragmented. I see my life on this wall with Monalisa incomplete.