Ripened Fruit

Persimmons....

i dont understand persimmons very well. i dont understand many things for that matter.being happy.knowing, and remembering it. pulling your lips to a widening smile. eyes widening too. when you dont even know what it is. being happy. some damn'd mystery. just cause' it is undeniably natural. is it what we are capable of? is it a frightening power?

and i am forever drawn to it, like a moth to a flame.

one day, i was given a new box of pastels. oil pastels. faber castle. they are strange. tough. polished. but not entirely accesible.
i grind it into the paper. and rubbed the oranges and yellows.

three persimmons.on a blue, unreal, fake, make-believe wishful thinking kind of checkered blue.
the way a child thought a sky should look like. (except i always thought it was blue organza over black gown, even on the lightest day)

mother loved it so much. hung it up like a trophy. or something to hold on to.

to me, three pieces of fruit never meant much.
at least far less than what it means to mother.
(she probably jus enjoyed the colours)
(or simply because i am her baby)
i try to imagine her thoughts of me as a baby. and now still one.
i guess she knew then,that i will leave, and lose myself, before i shall return.

yesterday,
i returned.

once again, i sat on the rug. leaning against the bookcase.
gazing up at the infinite warmth.
breathing slowly. tasting them.
they brought light into this hallway.
or more?

i realise, and remembers.
of a time.
when i dont have to paint and know the answer.
but just to paint and ask.
paint.
and wonder.

i'm a toddler once again.
and i hear her say,
"it's okay. for today. just enjoy the colours".

yeah.
okay.