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White upon white,
lapping up the white,
the canvas swallowed by infinity,
and I stood stunned by the tide of the white
emerging, surging,
and merging with all.
Where am I?
Where do I stand?
my brush and palette
looking so small, ineffectual instruments
without a light.
Where are my fingers, where the brush,
where the landscape in my mind?
Is this sleep or drunkenness?
Do I feel nothing; am I numb?
And I don't regret that i can't paint,
nor do I regret that I can't write.
Today, for awhile,
I just want to wallow
in this solitary numbness,
solitary bliss.
lapping up the white,
the canvas swallowed by infinity,
and I stood stunned by the tide of the white
emerging, surging,
and merging with all.
Where am I?
Where do I stand?
my brush and palette
looking so small, ineffectual instruments
without a light.
Where are my fingers, where the brush,
where the landscape in my mind?
Is this sleep or drunkenness?
Do I feel nothing; am I numb?
And I don't regret that i can't paint,
nor do I regret that I can't write.
Today, for awhile,
I just want to wallow
in this solitary numbness,
solitary bliss.
Sushama Karnik
Oct. 16, 2015
Oct. 16, 2015
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