Your voice

Some say that if you are lucky enough to be born in the countryside where nature is everywhere around you, you’ll find your inspiration just by looking outside your window. And many would probably agree with them, but that would not be the case with Taera.

For her, inspiration couldn’t be found in the nature, for her inspiration wasn’t a something, but a someone.

On a beautiful spring day when the sun warms up every street, every hidden corner, lies to every little kid to crave for a first ice-cream in the new year, encourages everyone to dream for a swim in the lake or a bare-feet run on the green carpet.

On a day like that, inspiration could be found everywhere; in the little flowers that are peeping shyly through the green grass; the butterflies that are flying around the fields making them look like palette of different colors. On a day like that inspiration could be born to anyone. To anyone, but to Taera. Because for her the inspiration were not the blue skies, the little birds landing beside her feet; for her the true inspiration was a voice. His voice.

In the yards of their school’s campus, she was sitting under a tree with thick brunches helping her hide from the sun that that day seemed like it was shining brighter than in July, although the calendar was still in early spring.

Her canvas board was steadily positioned in front of her, a palette filled with various colors of acrylic paint in one of her hands, her favorite handmade-wooden paintbrush in the other and her eyes pinned on the paper in front of her.

Her hands had all the shades of blue color polished over them and they looked as if she was painting with them and not with the brushes; but to her that didn’t really matter. She never minded the mess when it came to painting, because as long as the picture was good, everything else was worth it.

His voice, coming from the half opened window of the music classroom on the first floor of the building was to blame on the mess that she was making.

Her hands seemed like they were moving on their own, painting over the paper with a speed following the tempo of the song. She would use a darker color whenever he would sing a lower note; she would paint slower when he was singing adagio. She was moving her hands as he was moving his on the piano tiles. She kept painting as if she was combining her soul with the song; as if she was becoming one with him.

“Did I draw this?”

She questioned herself when her eyes met with the masterpiece laid on the canvas board in front of her. The picture showed dark clouds hovering over a stormy sea with furious waves pounding in one another, forming a bigger one.

She kept starring at the painting in front of her. She didn’t know when she drew that, it was like she was hypnotized by the sound of his piano. She was enchanted by his voice and the feelings he was delivering with it.

What caused her to draw such dark scenery when the day itself was so bright and peace-giving? Why did she feel that her tears were to drop when she didn’t have a matter to be sad about?

Was it because of him?

Why did he sing like his heart was breaking in pieces, like he was trapped in an invisible cage?

And why did she feel like she painted his feelings inside her picture?

His voice seemed to bewitched her. It sounded inhuman and unreal, too much angelic to belong in this cruel world.

His voice aroused her curiosity for a face to face meeting, but at the same time she didn’t want to see him. She wanted to keep his face hidden inside her imagination.

As long as he could make her feel that way, as long as he could drive her thoughts to another world, she was satisfied with just hearing his voice.

And maybe if one day their paths crossed, she would thank him for that.

Maybe one day...

Maybe...