We are born with the aftermath of a dying freedom, and we spend the rest of our lives looking to reincarnate it from the ashes of what we have left.
Like an itch under the skin, we grow up with a half soul, trapped in the cages of what they label us as. We are given names and beliefs that are more or less chains to our own existence. It’s like we are born and at the moment we breathe in our first air; red-faced and panting from the overwhelming sense of life itself, a text book of ‘’How to be’’ is branded on us in white-hot iron, and we spend the rest of our life trying to find ways to make the marks go away, or at least make them less visible, less hideous to look at.
In a world that still fails to see the person as just that, it is a curse that we are so aware of our differences. When the dust settles, we are all serving the same purpose, to be free. Some of us find the closest thing to freedom at the end of a pen, so we write, words and poems that we feel are the reflection of who we truly want to be, or supposed to be. We write, and in the ways our words hug the paper we find salvation from all what is binding us and weighing us down. We write, and ink vaporizes itself into air, words become prayers that we were to sheepish to voice, and the rough whiteness of the paper becomes a flag to a nation of our own premature hopes and dreams that never seem quite worth pursuing.
We all find our resolutions in art; it doesn’t matter if it’s in the way the colors fall on canvas, in the mess of reds and purples and all that is the way life itself takes shape in one painting, or in the way our bodies love the music and the universe falls down at our feet every time we dance. It doesn’t matter if it’s in the way few musical notes can set hearts on fire, and sounds that fit together like puzzle pieces can give meaning to entire lives. Art is like coming home, when home is somewhere you’ve never been yet dreamed of every single night. It’s the incredibly unbelievable mix of being so blissfully happy and so tragically sad that you are left out of breath. In art we find resistance of all that has been forced upon us, like a revolution that has been lurking beneath the surface waiting for a chance to go up in flames. Art in itself is a political statement, a rebellion against all what is ordinary and plain. It is made to set us free, to make us humans before we are citizens and maybe one day, when we allow it to, it will.
Author: Meriem ZITOUNI