I sat down pensively, as the teacher set before me again..some colours, and as well a canvas, and on it were drawn neat boxes.
I spent the better part of the morning painstakingly colouring inside the boundaries of a big box.
Then off I went..only to come back at noon. And wishing this time to stay clearly out of the box. So I colour all the canvas, carefully staying out of the box.
I stretch and doze… and when I come to, I am overtaken by a rabid rebellion. I criss-cross the colours all across the canvas- strokes from inside the box leaping out of it, and those from out of the box piercing into it. A manic pleasure I derive from this sacrilege. And somewhere I feel like a little victory has been achieved over these boxes.
It’s twilight now. And I settle down with a celebratory wine. I am languid and carefree, at the end of the day. So much so, that I clumsily knock the glass of wine over.
And here I have sat, for hours now, watching the spilled wine dissolve the very boundaries of the boxes. The crimson spreads through the canvas…dissolving with it, the boxes.. in fact the very canvas itself. And the crimson has spread not just through the canvas, but on to the desk and the floor…And there is no stopping it.
This wet crimson of a carefree and reflective hour has overrun and overtaken everything. There is no box.. even hardly the canvas itself. Or rather the canvas is now everything-the chair and the table, the carpet…and the room.. and me. And the crimson flows on to it in every direction-Interacting with every surface.. leaving its traces.. yet moving onward.
And here I sit wondering blankly, about when I became that person, who couldn’t stop obsessing about the boxes all day.
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