פרל

You feel my eager fingertips within your grip as I pull you through pseudo-dimensions of stars and nebulas, colours swirling at your feet. The beguiling nature starts to overflow as we drift off. With a delightful abruptness, your feet hit the velvet woven moss, framed by miles of lush firs twinkling in warm-hued light. We see the mystery girl from my dreams, brown hair flowing in an effortless wave, standing majestically on a stump. Berries bud from bushes, shades of ultramarines and byzantium blend carefully to contrast against the juniper leaves. What is this place? Luckily, you’ve asked the right person. This is the waiting room, the beginning of the Edifice of Recollection. It’s where one can be sent while dissecting a medieval painting and wondering, Who lives in that castle? How do they spend their days? You nod as I explain, and we advance on our journey once again.

We land softly within the outskirts of a city resembling one you could find in South Africa, illustrated by dry mountains and an unmatched blue sky. The house featured is a welcoming bungalow. I hold the wooden fretwork door open as you step up, and a cool gush of air meets our faces with an aroma of patchouli mixed with amber; the spices of my departed grandmother. Her wicker furniture is surrounded by cascading devil’s ivy, indie patchwork, and mahogany sculptures. A lone rainstick is propped against the stairs. The rug, made of entwined straw, could press marks into your bare skin if you ever decided to lie on the floor and listen to the faint chatter of those you love. Grandmother herself is resting on the couch with her black leather purse beside her. Her headscarf and earrings share the same shade of coral, though the earrings are embellished with astral pendants. 

I turn to you and give a tearful smile.

“This is my safe place.” Now you feel it too, the nostalgia and deep-rooted sentimentality present in this memory. The tour can go on, but I’m going to stay here awhile. 

This is the way I visualize an entire world, just from breathing a perfume that happens to meet my path. My haven is there when I need it; everyone I love remains in their immortality. The Edifice of Recollection is my sense of self; it always has been. Yet it’s caused obstacles. At first, it was an escape, somewhere I’d go in the midst of a bustling social scene or during mathematics class. At the pinch of pain, I vanished into my mind, pushing others aside.

Though it isn’t a safe place anymore, it’s a growing power. 

Every kind of emotional torture I’ve endured— childhood trauma; betrayal from those I love; feeling misunderstood from apathy around me— all brought upon beautiful understanding. I’ve transformed my turmoil and mental wonderland into an inspiration for creation, because creativity does not end at colour and composition. Its heart beats down to the point of self-actualization and the depth of one’s soul. It can be comforting, understanding, bittersweet, and cleansing; there is no limit to how it is experienced. Art involves pain and reminders, but uses those burdens to create a lurid world of universally understood yearning. That’s power. It is sovereign to grab hold of parasitic lies we tell ourselves and nurture them until they become a creative healing process. The most influential part is community. Sharing one’s story— miracles of the mind appreciated and felt by others, no matter who they are. This is rewriting your past, through a group of people who follow.

Our eyes snap open after our journey. You’ve seen the depths of my mind,  colour and organic emotion I have shared with you. I don’t want to keep this for myself, I want the world to join.