Sunday, October 20, 2013


I burnt my favorite painting. I had to. I needed to.

All my other creations, all those random faces of shape, color and shade with a touch of illuded free will on canvas; none satisfied me. I was angry at them.

I started nailing nails for these painted paintings. Over bare surfaces of walls, each pair of eyes on each canvas made my room a witness.

I was out of canvas, paint and brush, but I had this room and these walls. I had my sweat, my blood. I had my nails and my claws.

I scarred the room, and the walls, painted murals of red lines and splatters of shapes and shades. Faces on the walls had to be reborn.

I could see the warmth of the red sun cast the shadow of a dead man on the floor. I smiled as I saw two parallel lines reaching for me from him. I was done. It was the creation of me in the boundary of canvas for the witness to see. Sun, burn me and I give the promise of return.

-Pouria Roshan

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