Jil speaks...

A dark night.
A gunshot killed all the silence.
Cutting through air like diamond through glass, the bullet hit her temple, bull’s eye.

Long before the gunshot or the shooter picked the gun, was an artist. And he painted. And he dreamed. His gentle brush-strokes caressed the canvas and made art; the angels fell facedown in worship.

He dreamed and he painted.
And then dreamed and then
… He painted again.
---

Twenty-two religions. My Twenty-two brilliant ideas. Twenty-two governments.
Twenty-two bruises. Twenty-two stab-wounds.
There were twenty-two demonic attempts at ruining his masterpiece.
The genius still remains in the pieces.

A strong bearded man came along this evening and he said, “Let’s put it back.”

And so we pick up the pieces. All day and night. Those pieces which look complete, we crush. And we keep picking the pieces.

He gazed sharply at me; His countenance was like the moon-lit sky.
“Remember”, he said, “You did not make yourself.”