When I am drenched
And the heart feels aloof
Absent to the constant pain

Let me drown, that moment
And not think again
Or doubt
The profundity of my talents

In killing I have taken a decision. Undeterred by humanity. Or the countless million voices that reason with reason. I belong to myself, a complete, I am. In me lies the final pang of life; in me lies the strength to reach out to the shore.

I am the anti-artistic vision that permeates homes and valleys; an antonym to young dreams of valour. But valour is viscous; it rides to impress multitudes. I am, the multitude.

In water I think of green grass, its blades curvaceous, and appalling, to the vanity of a woman. I have made love to grass and joyfully partaken, Her hungry glance. My lover, with its plentiful deaths, and rebirths, is more alluring than the fickle sounds of human love.

Am I, a synopsis of my life, or am I, a harbinger of change? I dipped into my well and drew a map they call art, I was, reminded, of art’s affiliation to the depth of colours, amassed, by mankind. Like my head that dips into water, my colours faded in the archetype of human emotions.

But I am fadeless. I possess, the qualities of my skin; my liver breathes life into me, alone. And the bubbles in water, come from within me. They are, perhaps, my last mercurial creations.

It had thus been decided, to impose upon the human, institutions of fear, of control. And the artist, born to be free, to leap, and choose, the colour of his self, was clad in white and his body, his soul, defined. He leapt within the definition and proclaimed his freedom, his soul, as supreme.

When I am one with water, and I seep into soil, and blossom as flower, I shall reign supreme, over vitrified walls, and yet, not reign, not repeat the invented human folly.

My head hits the water bed and with me ends the philosophy of work, of talent, that is unrivalled in thought and shape. And that bowed to none. I see the last shards of sunlight and onto my skin, a fish nibbles me slowly.

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