We will not stop (to draw our love)

 I used to draw, paint in vivid colors. About the world, the inner and the outer ones, things I found beauty in, everything. 

Drawing enabled a sense of romance for the mundane, an excitement in the boring, the smooth flow of watercolor gave directions in a tumbling reality.

A reality that was often tumbling, rarely stable, being in your early twenties, ever changing relationships,  jobs, people come and go, stability comes and goes, commitments are fleeting, hearts are vulnerable, the paint dries quickly. 

For the longest time I was the source of my own distress, my immediate existence, identity. Living as a queer individual, healing my personal trauma, improving my own self, caring about my people, my inner circle. 

Already enough to worry about, enough to fuel my creativity. Enough to keep me occupied, sometimes over occupied. 

My Paintings were a reflection of my reality, inspired by people and connections. 

My people and my connections.

Before all of this, I wanted to draw the love between us, having been described as a presence. Like someone was in the room with us. So strong it manifested into something physical, something so visible to the outside world. 

In my mind she manifested as a woman, warm and kind. She would hug me whenever you could not. She would stay in the room even after you left. She would be the most beautiful, flirting with her eyes, drawing everyone in. 

In my imagination she looked like the sun, but shone like the moon. 

Somehow like a cloudless sky in summer, somehow her voice sounded like the ocean. Her hair waves of affection. 

I wanted to give her a face of watercolor, wanted to make her visible to you since you do not have the same colors behind your eyes. Your brain is all numbers and concepts. 

All abstraction, no red elephants. 

Sometimes I wonder how our love feels to you, how it looks to you, how you would describe it if you had the words, how you would paint it if you had the colors. 

Did the war take the colors from you? Olive Green and watermelon red? The sand and the waves in all the hues of the horizon. 

You miss it sometimes and I wonder if that is the reason why you like my blue-ish eyes so much. 

I am no horizon, only waves of words that feel so empty recently. 

Did they take them away from you? The colors? 

You feel so far away. 

Did we get lost between waves and wars and this war that is no war. 

It is manifesting too, as a person in both of our lifes. 

We are taking turns trying to protect each other, getting hurt in the process. 

Fighting that ugly creature calling itself many names. 

It calls itself justified, it calls itself righteous, moral, conflict, necessary. We call it genocide. 

We call it by its name. 

If I would paint it, give it a face of watercolor, would it become more visible to people or only to the ones already aware of its presence. 

Everything before this sentence is meaningless. 

Humans are dying. Being Murdered. 

Your people are dying. Being Murdered. Being starved. Being locked in and herded from one place to another by fire and bombs. 

When you close your eyes you do not see colors. You do not see pictures. You do not see our love. How could you? 

Everything is meaningless before this sentence.

Everything is meaningless after this sentence. 

Everything is meaningless, if it were not for everything before this sentence. 

If it were not for our love, that is visible to everyone. 

If it were not for the people, your people, my people, the ones still alive. 

People being herded, by bombs and fire, from one place to the other. 

There is so much to fight for, so much to write for, so many heads and minds that have to be turned. 

They turned when they saw us, the love between us. 

They turned their heads when they heard your story, saw your soul, all numbers and concepts. 

There is so much to fight for, so much work to be done. 

There is some third creature in the room. A creature yet to be fed. 

Fed by words, fed by community, fed by stories and pictures we paint. Fed by our love and it´s face of watercolor. 

I would not call it hope, yet. It goes by many names with eyes that hold the horizon and a mouth full of words that spark action. A heart full of pain and a mind of its own. 

Resistance, Resilience, Reliance and a little spite. 

We will not stop. Words tattooed on its bare chest, his whole body, in every language imaginable. We will not stop. We will not stop. We will not stop. We will not stop. We will not stop.