He. He was searching for that face. A face that has been haunting him for years. Behind the shadows. Keeping him restless. He was never a follower of the puzzles;
He created puzzles. From his mind. To his imagination. To his fingers. To his brush. To his canvas.
He always created a mystery in the sheets. The smell of the fresh paper; And the smell of the old Parisian inks intoxicated him. To a different trance mode into which he would dive for weeks. Till it would hit his imagination to the core and deliver it back in the form of grey strokes. Years has he been solving the enigma of his fantasies.
But now…
He is out of those lines. Those infinite colors, that he would bring out with just one color of grey.
He could not decipher the face. He could not grasp it and make it his own.
That face… its silhouette… is the only rescue that he got from all his yearnings to see it.
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The room was so beautiful for an artist. No mess. No paint splashes. No dirt. The room itself was a beautiful painting. A painting to perfection. It was made shabby only by one sketch. One among a million copies of her. Mona Lisa. She is not beautiful; she is cold. Why she, of all the beautiful celebrations of femininity?
She was intriguing.. She was a dilemma.
She was questioning.
She was answering. Not.
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He felt fogged.
He felt out of breath.
The smell of his works.
The closed place.
The secluded atmosphere.
Mona Lisa’s all knowing eyes. Her sarcastic smile.
He feared his eyes would start welling up.
He fled from there. To a beautiful place. With fresh air. With simple people.
Wishing for a clear vision to his heart, which achingly held that unknown face.
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Jardin du Luxembourg. Tall trees. Manicured shrubs. Warm colored leaves scattered on sand. People everywhere. Talking. Laughing.
And there it is. De Medici Fountain. The most amorous place in Paris. The fountain near the alcove; Crowned with trees grown wildly around. Not prim like the rest of the gardens, but veiled and rather dark.
Watching the couples holding their hands and smiling at each other’s eyes, he asked self.
Why is always a special place for a man and a woman? Why is their relationship always celebrated eternally more than the others’?
Is it the ultimate companionship, everyone is searching for? Or is it all about being in love, but not love for being self…
Small ripples are forming in the water. A long hand is playing carelessly in water.
He looked at the face. That face.
He felt he found it.
He looked more intensely. As an artist.
He was analysing his object of inspiration. As an artist.
She was tall and waif. Was not the conventional choice of a painter.
But she had that face. A very sculpted one.
He looked again and again. Not as an artist.
——————————————
Finally they met their gaze.
He felt a lump inside his chest. He took his eyes away. He was never good at making the first move.
But today… today is not like the other days… He had found her.
If he moved away, he will lose his chance forever. He walked towards her. She stood up.
They smiled. They talked. With their eyes.
He could feel something running from his chest to his hands. To his mouth. To his stomach. He was still in that puzzle. Why she?
He leaned closer towards her. He did not know how long they stood like that. His hands moved from hers to her waist. Suddenly, she moved back from him and looked down.
He waited silently for her.
“I cannot do this now… I have to complete something… I have to finish something on myself…”
He broke his silence for a moment.
“I do not understand… ”
“I have to be done something on me, so that I will be fully fashioned. Sans my past…”
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He felt the lump on his chest going down to his stomach.
He stood there wide-eyed. Still blind.
He could hear all the noises around. Still unperceived.
He felt like he didn’t know himself…
“I want to go now. I have to think about some riddles of my own.. Please do not… Its not you… Its me… I want to find myself… Or I wilI be lost from myself forever.”
Tearful she.
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He had no choice but walk away, not knowing where.
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He looked around his room frantically and had his eyes caught up with a pair of Louboutin stilettos he had bought it for no one. Except for him to look at; even though it cannot be worn…
because he is a man…
He had always tried to find excuse for his conscience for the ridiculous amount he paid for it when he hadn’t had enough to feed him… but that pair was something unattainable for him in strange ways…
because he is a man.
He started pondering over the women he admired most. The perfect forms of his definition of beauty. Paz Vega. Tall, lean, dark thicker brows, strong jaws. Juliette Binoche. Seldom considered beautiful but rather brawny enough to hurl you to the core. Why are their such unconventional features alluring to him?
He knew, all along he was the puzzle for him to solve. He had never enjoyed the beautiful womanhood of the infinite number of sculptures and paintings in Musee De Louvre. They were only looked upon as a perfection of art. Never hearted for his own joie de vivre.
———————–
Mona Lisa in his home, staring every excruciating hour at him …
her soft face.
but her intense expression…
her strong ardor.
She was questioning again.
She was answering again. Not.
————————
A stranger has been hiding inside him for years.
A stranger who never confided his natural urges to him.
He started unraveling the threads.
He was waking up from his cocoon.
He broke the shell.
————————
He knew then…
The haunting face.
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It was his. The truth about himself.
Which he had tried to forbid.
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Finally he had decrypted himself.
He had freed his mind from all the chains that he had locked himself in.
His hidden urges sought at last.
His quest for the unknown answered.
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His sexuality
Demystified
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P.S. The story name ‘He’, I leave it to the reader’s interpretation. Even though he is my own imaginary character, it’s painful for me to interpret his personal pronoun completely. And thus, this is my most edited write-up ever. And still prone to more editing in the future. For me, his story is always going to be incomplete, literally and figuratively. Therefore, I’m not full-stopping the end.
