~ Painting of memories ~

In the atelier of our lives there is one painting that always stands unfinished. Lonely, it stands on a special easel, covered and separated from other paintings. In it, in detail, with stopped and tired moves, the whirlwind of a time to which our life belongs and the echoes of all our fears, desires and hopes are depicted. In its colors and layers, tearing fragments of our heart and years of hidden memories of horrible nights and mornings without the sun, are silent. Behind these lost life strongholds, only an unfinished painting remained. When we miss something, we go to the atelier, and in one of those, known only to us, memories, we look for moments that belong only to us. We touch our sorrow, and for a moment it seems to us that we are happy again and that we are walking along the path where there once was hope. Although the flowers, which we used to cover our paths, have long since withered, we still look for a way to somehow make it alive. Every one of our tears, like a drop of water, tries to wake it from a deep sleep. Our senses again feel flickers and smells, which once captured our soul a long time ago. We remember one of the many days that changed our lives, when we wanted to drift into someone’s thoughts and make our heart stop loving. After one of those days, which we received unprepared, nothing was the same again. Everything started in some unknown course. After many years, in the endless sea of memories, we are trying to find answers of many, the long-standing, questions. In the moments of re-examination, we begin to realize that much, and if we wanted, we could not stop and hold. Like spilled colors, which build their life and duration in the cracks of canvas, each of us has some sort of fate and way. Many of our attempts to escape this fate and a certain road often end with failure. Each of our desires stops in front of high walls that do not allow us to go further. All attempts become only painful memories that we once wanted something and that we were striving for something. We come to the conclusion that we were much happier before we wanted. If it were not for those rare, bright days, we would never know how beautiful life is and only one. If there was no deep pain and sadness we would not have anything to write about, our painting would not remain unfinished. It would, joyful, bathed in bright colors, stand on a wall and no one would notice it, because happiness always looks like one to another, and sorrows are always different. The first joys are rarely reiterated, and even when it happens, they remind only of faded copies, from which all the glow and beauty disappeared. Every man was a child only once. Each of us sometimes wants to return to his first painting and small dreams, to touch again everything that is pure and forgotten, which once filled his heart. The memories lead us to the first fragrant flowers from the garden of our dear mother, to the first encounters with colorful birds that would accidentally land on our windows, to our first sea and its waves, to the first shell for which we searched for hours, to the first pencil and color, to the first the knowledge that we can write our stories and that we can paint our feelings. When all these unrepeatable moments pass, we realize that we were very shortly part of one blue sky that carried our kites, that we did not have enough time to remember the smell of grass and the flickering of the silver river. After many years, we remember most clearly the views of the unknown people that we met. These views, we unconsciously record on our unfinished painting. When we notice them, we wonder why we painted them, and not the ones that no longer exist, but who gave us a lot. What we most see in our lives means only to us. We paint it in a special way, codes and strange shapes, which many tries to figure out. One part of our lives is constantly walking along the border between the clear and the unclear, so even we can not fully understand it. Every new morning brings us new drops of life that are collecting, disappearing and again falling down on our soul, heavy and inexplicable. And at the moment we do not want that at all, we hear them again persistently banging on the windows. And we can not handle with them, we can only wait for the sunshine to melt them, but the sun is not always shining on our windows. It appears and disappears at unknown intervals, and we are looking for some logic and connection in everything. Maybe darkness also exists for a reason. If it were not for it, our unfinished painting might not be bright. If there were not so many unfulfilled wishes, we might not dream. We are always hoping that everything is not still lost since we exist and our memories too. Our little life is based on the struggle between this hope and hopelessness. Nothing is the way we imagined in childhood. Everything is far from the image we taught to talk and walk. We roam around in the hallways across the big anthill, constantly searching for the traces of light. Not even memories, that once or several times we passed through those hallways do not help us find them. We look for them, like spilled colors, in every crack. Every new awakening opens up new wounds, deep like the abyss that swallowed all our joys and large candy boxes. Our senses, which have long since forgotten the tastes of these joys, begin to recognize only bitterness. It’s always gray. It’s the color of our defeat. The artists, who did not know how to present all those nameless memories and moments in which they were not sure whether they were happy or suffering, whether they were falling or getting up, whether they were leaving or returning, created it. We accepted this color and it became an integral part of our day. It is that tall wall that always stands between us and our dreams. There is not enough big painting in which we can place all those dreams, passers-by and words that we did not say. We are forced to paint in layers on this our small canvas. Its emptiness is enough to describe all our remorse, presentiment, uncertainty, and silence. Once, when space is no longer enough, we will also paint it with the last moves.
Painting of memories, author Suzana Stojanović, July 27, 2006