“I paint with shapes”
She was not made of desire, saccharine kisses or mid-summer dreams.
She wasn’t a thing of beauty, because she did not know what ugly was.
She was free within the periphery of her dreams.
She was lost, said some.
But that didn’t worry her because freedom was not her concern.
She was a prism, and their voices would permeate through her and take shape into colourful patterns which lit up her imagination and her ceiling in the stillness of a dark night.
She trapped everything that didn’t make sense and turned it into abstract art.
She wasn’t the sky, she was the stars that tessellated it.
Her spirit was so massive that it had to be fragmented into zillion, relatively smaller, but still massive, pieces of shiny trinkets.
She became the softness in the moonlight, she was the peak of a hill.
She had angles, one too many. It was difficult to fit her into anything.
So she started fitting things around herself instead. She was God’s interior decorator.
She was unfazed, unchallenged, and absolutely amorphous.
Ironically, she was geometry.