Habits (Part 3)

"Tastes are acquired."

"Gradually. Painstakingly. Slowly."

"It's not a one time thing, it takes a while."

"It takes repetition." 

The sun started to stir in the east sky. It was early spring, the sun was still groggy, a bit late to the 5 am party. I looked down from the terrace. Dogs, three of them, barking, roughing each other up, snarling in a constant struggle for survival. Beside them, humans. Families walking, couples sauntering, friends running beside each other, the rare person jogging alone. Open drains, faeces piled up on the sides of the roads, adorning the dark corners. All of this, making a suburban scenery, lightly brightened by the drunk late winter, early spring sun. 

From my vantage point, without my glasses, they all looked the same. So small, so scattered, so lifeless, so insignificant to the universe.

Just like me.

I averted my gaze from the streets below and looked at the skyline instead. It still was not bright enough to see the hills in the north, but their rolling, vast outlines could be deciphered in the darkness, a shade darker than the purple-black sky itself. Now that, I thought, was something significant all right. Not like us humans, or strays, or the garbage and vermin on the face of earth - miniscule, transient, fragile, breakable.

The skyline wasn't anything special either. The same old green gray buildings weathered by time. Unloved, alone, old. Cold skyscrapers towering above the battered houses, now relics of the past. A school terrace, to the east, its surface blackened, slimy and slippery, with a solitary neon green water tank, newly installed, the only flicker of life on its monochrome monotonicity.

Twenty minutes had passed as I was ruminating. The sun was now higher up, the oblique rays falling upon the small terrace garden I stood in the midst of. The single sunflower began reaching for the sunlight. The dew on the china rose glimmered, a little prism, refracting. The kitchen knife in my right hand shone brilliantly. The buds loosened up a little. My muscles relaxed. 

And as the bland and nondescript flowers on the cactus bloomed red throughout the season, so did I.

Every morning throughout spring, we bloomed crimson. Sometimes on the rooftop, sometimes on the bathroom tiles. 

Everyday, we bloomed, me and my twin in the mirror. 

We bloomed crimson, everyday, all our fears vanishing in the ecstasy. 

Everyday, without fail.

We cherished it.

Bloomed, crimson, red, maroon.

We did.

I did.

I never thought of myself as much of an artist. Was never much interested either. But by the time May rolled around, I had created a canvas hidden from the public eye, an artwork in private making.

And I realised, that though I'd never dreamt of this happening :

I had developed a taste.