Blurred Painting

Framing. You and me, a frame. I wonder if even with all your skill, the camera would be able to capture the magic of the moment.

How many pixels are necessary for our portraits to be faithful to what we are feeling? You look at me like I'm crazy and start to smile awkwardly – these are quick and almost invisible movements I would like to record. My camera is the pen and the words would never be fair with what happens. Nor is my memory good enough to remember the details.

I could ramble on the orange sunset, the blue sky and the green of the trees, but in our picture the background is blurred. Your lens met mine and we created an image inside another. Who kept the copies of the photos? Who could say that everything was real, that was not beyond my imagination? No one but us.

My hands hold yours. Although small, I notice how they are responsible for all the beauty of your records. I imagine all the places in the world that your talent will take you and I feel a tightness in the chest, until I remember that I am also about to leave. No editing would be able to prevent the disaster that would come if we had continued together. No glue could keep our pieces together.

The text is incomplete. Words refuse to let me use them. Writing requires courage, they tell me. Your cowardice is disguised as compassion. Sometimes art can turn us inside out and play us agains the wall, ripping us off what we did not want to admit. A touch, an explosion of portraits. Moments I've seen happen, but they will never materialize. Moments that we both imagined and gave ourselves to the universe for a few minutes, until reality took each one of them, kneaded and throwed on our faces.

It was supposed to be a joyful text, my mind whispers. It was supposed to be the record of a wonderful afternoon. Writing loses purpose. The box of hopes is thrown into the fire and the only instant that is saved is that concrete not so concrete – so fragile and ephemeral, that it takes one blow for it to fall through the air. There will be no more kisses, hugs or handshakes. There will be no conversations throughout the day, loose smiles, repeated questions, whispers, or invitations to get together.

The afternoon turns into a memoir that should not be written, read or remembered. It takes sacrifice to feed ghosts. I wrote this text to calm the spirits of whom we went that day; Those two naive people who thought they had found something real and special, two people who are no longer the same. I wrote because I needed to finish the text or it would haunt me for the entire month. I wrote to remind me of you, but also to leave my memory rest in peace. I wrote it.

The beginning, the middle and the end mingle in this icy mass that blocks my throat. Our relationship was brief and shocking as a short story, capable of eliciting countless reactions in just one afternoon of reading. The thread is not lost; He was found and burned, so that the story would not have loose ends. Our protagonists no longer know if they are heroes, anti-heroes or villains, they simply are. Loving and unwillingness are confused; Our lenses no longer look in the same direction. I got it. No need to explain, you tell me. Tears blur the paper, the words become drops of visions that we imagined for both of us. The text is no longer the same, neither the author nor the reader. Something is broken, diluted, confused.

You see, if art often needs pain to touch others; What will you say about those who are seduced by their songs of joy? It had to give up, when all my fingers wanted was never lose yours. Now the imprecision. In time, the blessing. There are those who see a pure heart and are tempted to tear it apart, to add it to the list of conquests, and to touch it with unclean fingers. There are those who prefer to contemplate their beauty and hope that regardless of who you are and which path you follow, may you be happy. You needed someone to stay. And all I could offer you were letters. My bags are ready. I carry the photo we never took; On the lips, the kiss we never thought would be the last... In the face of all this tidal wave, I cling to a rock and find my balance – even a little awkward, upside down, about to be dragged by the waves and to burst against the rocks at any moment.

One less broken heart. One less bonfire to be thrown. I know it's only a matter of time before the focus comes back. Until then, I leave everything blurred. There is something magical even in the face of lack of magic, letting everything happen and not knowing where to go, as long as you find peace within you and know that you have done right. Did I? I don’t know. One day I'll know. Until then, if you look at that day, you will find a painting open to multiple interpretations. Do you know how it is? The universe knows like no one how to play as a writer, photographer, artist. And he's still the master of plot twists. Maybe the sea takes my scribbles? Maybe the sun dries our lens? The work is not lost, it is transformed. I give it not to you or to me. It is no longer ours and perhaps never has been.