I’ll meet my Artist, someday

An excuse not to continue revising my research proposal and resort to making a blog entry: I lost my usb flash drive and I’m getting a little too lethargic on times I shouldn’t be.

So I start imagining things again, trying to create a world within my world, a place which I envision to exist. There, I will meet people. People I hate, people I love, people I will live with forever.

People I will live with forever. There will be, I know they will come. I know he will. That one person.

We will do things together. Walk along the city streets, under the extreme heat of the sun and under the city lights. We will hold hands, as if we’re one and the same.

We’ll listen to each other’s playlists, enjoying our weird taste in music. From the classics to indie, maybe some hiphop, a little RnB, garage, punk, a lot of all the different rock genres, and back to our time – the 90s. Listen to Abba and dance to our mums’ Dancing Queen era. We’ll sing to our favorite Beatles’ tracks, M. Jackson, Bob Marley and the Wailers, The Smiths, Noah and the Whale, Up Dharma Down, local and foreign groups, individuals, we won’t mind. We’ll enjoy the music from our vinyl player as we sip our tea.

We will smoke weed together, get high and let our innards fly, create our world. We’ll do it in our house or at the back of the car or maybe in the bath, just like how Gibson and his dead twin Jamie did it, like brothers.

We’ll run laps in the morning. We’ll skate, he’ll teach me with his skateboard. I’ll watch him showoff his tricks and get a broken ankle (heehee). We’ll swim in pools and the sea.

We’ll have an exchange of vows. Get married. Have kids. And grand kids.

That one person is an artist.

He’s a painter.  I’ll watch him paint our ceiling like the Sistine Chapel and later transform it to a starry night. He’s a van Gogh wannabe. He’ll make a painting of me like that of Mona Lisa, and paint our memories like Guernica. He’ll be my Donatello and Warhol.

He’s a musician. He’ll sing me songs I love and never heard of with his old black guitar.

He’s a poet. A songwriter, a scriptwriter. A writer.

He’s a digital artist. He’ll show me his drawings, from his sketchpad to his pc + tab illustrations. He’ll make comic strips about life, our lives.

He’s a filmmaker and we’ll watch his films together.

He’s a lot of things I want him to be, with different skills and interests. Someone I'm not.

And I know he’ll never come and never be mine. Because I know he does not exist, will not exist, which I’ve long accepted.

But maybe I’ll really meet my own artist, that artist in me. Someday. In another life.