Rising to the surface

“Angels can fly because they carry no burden” 

~Eileen Elias Freeman

I hold a spectrum in my hands – a pinch of ruby, a pool of emerald, a dash of amber, an armful of amethyst, a piece of sapphire.

I doubt I’ll use any of them today.

Leaning back, my eyes scan the lonely field. The early evening is quiet with weak sunshine, making the world look like had been drawn with charcoal. None of the continuum of colors typical of early sea-side nightfall.

Not ideal for painting.

I shake my head and pull out my sketching pen and pad. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Then my hands fly across the face with practiced movements, whittled worlds rising from the surface.

There's always a sense of cleansing when we breathe deeply, and think clearly. I suppose that's why I hold my breath for a moment before I draw. There's that fear which comes from cleaning out what is unnecessary so that in the end we pour something precious out.

So, as long as I breathe, I can continue to create.

As my hand skims and leaves wispy trails, my mind pulls back and flies into the slightly moist atmosphere, untethered.

***

You were my muse. It was as simple and complicated as that.

But why? Why did it have to be you?

You were just that boy who was writing in a notebook in that coffee shop down the street.

As I felt the almost scalding warmth seeping inside me through my coffee cup that rainy day, I took a peek from the corner of my eye at yours and raised an eyebrow. The non-dairy creamer was clouding on top and I knew it was because you were already engrossed, lost in a world where you play God and playwright.

I almost dismissed it, turned away, and left it at that, but something tugged me back. There was something enticing about you like wafting spices. So I looked closer.

Maybe it was the way you rested your fist against your cheek, flipping the pen in your hand absentmindedly. Or maybe it was the way your eyes misted over as you submerged into your fantasies.

Something about you seemed to radiate, a single light in the shadows, the only thing shifting in a motionless space. Though you sat quietly in the corner with lips curved, your presence rippled like heat waves, curtains in the breeze, moonlight upon water.

It felt right, like the grain of truth in a realm of fiction, or an answer to a question that I had long forgotten to ask.

And I knew I had to capture it for myself.

Then I was standing beside the table, ing a hand towards you.

“H-hey,” I stuttered. “My n-name is Kris.”

For the longest time, you didn’t move from your spot, pen still poised in the valley of your hand. I doubted you were even breathing. Just staring up at me with those clear, clear eyes.

But, just as I was about to bolt, your expression changed.

 “Yixing,” you said, setting your pen down and taking my hand. “Zhang Yixing.”

A small lilt painted your voice and I found it strangely pleasing. Nodding, I fumbled around for a topic. You offered no assistance, just sitting there with a vaguely amused expression.

Finally I said, “Can I get you another coffee?”  

You smiled, chuckled even, and it was so blindingly beautiful that I had to catch my breath.

“That would be lovely.”

***

The skeleton of the piece is finished.

I dig through my weighty bag, rummaging around until I found the inking pen that you had given me lifetimes ago. It had been on sale and 0.1mm too thick but I don’t mind.

Now I go back, defining and solidifying the smoke into something more tangible. As my steadier and firmer hand forms sense from the chaos, separating light from the dark, my thoughts wander away again.

Just letting my mind take me anywhere…

***

You agreed to be my muse, though when you said so, your expression was of one of pleasant surprise. I must admit, however, I shocked myself as well.

But I wanted to paint those features. Chisel them from marble, preserve them into clay, if I could. Immortalize those characteristics in any way so that I can never forget.

We talked for the rest of the day and I found—like I always will be for the months afterwards—that I would forget to listen, only taking in the dulcet tones of your voice and laughter. Watching the way your dark lashes fluttered over porcelain skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones.

Finally, when the glowing-red sun set the space afire, you got up to leave. And that day you bid farewell the same way you would for the rest of our time together.

With an almost mischievous expression gracing your lips, you said, “Goodbye, Kris.” Somehow, my name sounded different the way you said it. Yet it felt safer on your tongue.

And I didn’t notice that I lost a bit of myself to that voice right then.

***

Finally, the pen makes a self-satisfied clatter onto the face of the sketchbook before rolling onto the grass beside me, its job complete.

I gaze up at the sky for a moment, feeling my tightly-knitted muscles slowly unravel and relax. The atmosphere is still gray and offers no indication of the time.

It must’ve started already…

Shaking my head, I look back down at the physical representation of my inner state and fight the groan.

Of course, I think, running a hand through my blonde hair. I would draw the festival…

***

You were beautiful even though tears smeared the multicolored dye on your cheeks like oil paint melting off the page, images bleeding into blurry, obscure forms.

It was long after that first encounter. You just stood there and said nothing. No demands of explanations, no pleas of return. Nothing.

But your eyes are far more eloquent than words can fathom.

Finally, eternities later, you spoke.

“I only have one request.”

“Anything.”

A slight pause. “Don’t come to the festival.”

I stared. “But we prepared for this for months. Together…” The last word was lost in the whoosh of the wind thrown up from the sea and harbor.

Your gaze wavers and you turn away. “I want to be Icarus,” you murmured. The quiet words skimmed the horizon where the hints of dawn peeked over the surface. “Rise from the harbor and rebuild my own wings. My own catharsis.”

And I could think of only one thing. There is something poetic about seeing your own reflection in the broken pieces of someone’s soul.

***

“Mama, can people fly?”

A little boy’s voice snaps me from my memories. From the other side of the hill, the tall form of a mother leads her small child down the beaten path.

“Of course, honey,” the woman replies. Her voice carries easily across the grass like a spring breeze. “Anything’s possible because we’re alive.”

My eyes widen, but I can’t speak even if I want to. This… It sounds so familiar…

Paddling of small feet. “But then why doesn’t everybody do it then?” The boy continues, trotting after his mother as they continue together.

Even from here, I can see the loving smile that spreads across her features as she gathers her beloved son into her arms. “Many people can’t before they’ve forgotten how to, sweetheart. Now let’s go or we’ll be late…”

Their joined forms disappear down the hill yet I continue to stare after their silhouettes.

No, I had heard that before…

***

“Do you think you can fly?”

Chuckling, I replied, “No, no one can anymore.”

“Ah,” you said softly. “That’s not true.”

I had turned to you in confusion.

You didn’t respond right away. Avoiding my gaze, you the dull silver feather necklace against your chest. “It’s not because no one can fly,” you said, “because as long as you’re alive, anything’s possible.”

Then those eyes, so clear that I felt that they could see through me, met mine and held them.

“It’s because people have forgotten how.”

***

No, I think, there are too many things are left unsaid.

I shove my hand into my pocket, feeling for my cellphone to check the time. Maybe I can still make it… But my fingers are met with something flat, smooth, and…

Crinkle! I pull out the slip of paper and examine it.

“What the…?”

Flipping it over, my eyes widen when I recognize that slanted script. There is only one phrase on it.

***

“What does brumous mean?”

“Like cloudy… or something. I don’t know!” I said crossly, voice muffled from underneath the book resting on my face. “I’m not word-obsessed nerd like you are.”

You chuckled in that special way of yours then, with a “Fair enough”, you fell silent. The quiet that settles in between us was filled with the occasional rustling of your papers.

After a moment, I lifted the paperback slightly and asked, “Which is your favorite?”

My timing was spot-on. I just managed to catch the excited glint in your eyes before you ducked your head to fumble through the pile, in search for the perfect word.

Smiling slightly, I settled back into my imprint-spot in the grass and waited.

“This one,” you decided after a few minutes, shoving the small sheet towards me.

But I made no motion to take it from you. “Read it to me,” I said and before you could protest, I added, “I love your voice.”

I didn’t need to open my eyes to know that you flushed.

Your voice lilted melodically, fading into the hills like an evaporating liquid, brushing clear watercolor notes against the sweep of sky.

I couldn’t quite say it was happiness.

But I couldn’t say it was unhappiness either.

***

Ropes somewhere inside me unravel and fall away.

I stumble up so fast that the carefully-balanced containers beside me tumble, equilibrium tipped, splattering their liquid contents onto the grass.

But I don’t notice or care. I am already running, racing for something like I’ve never followed before, chasing after something that had already been in my grasp.

The words echo in my mind and resonate through my existence, in your light and airy accent that is smudged around the edges.

It reads simply:

“L’esprit de l’escalier [French] – the feeling that one gets after leaving a conversation with things unsaid.”

***

I remember learning a lot about you, just by watching. Yet I felt like I didn’t know you at all.

“Koi no yokan. Japanese,” you said. “The intuitive feeling when one meets someone for the first time and there is the possibility of falling in love.”

The curves of my lips lifted slightly upwards and I side-glanced at you.

“Is there a reason you chose this phrase?”

“Maybe.”

I remember nodding, still watching those sharp cheekbones and wispy smile danced across your lips. And I took note of the things that you left unsaid.

***

“Hello there, Contestant Number 12. You don’t look like you’re from here!”

“I’m not.”

“So what’s your name?”

“Yixing. Zhang Yixing.”

“Cool. So, where are you from?”

“Changsha, China.”

***

I was always afraid that you’d just fade away. That with one careless sweep of an eraser, you would vanish from my life.

Only paper-thin and paint-deep.

***

“And what are you naming your act for today?”

“Icarus.”

“Icarus?”

“Yes.”

“Like the boy who drowned because he flew too close to the sun?”

“Well, sir, I prefer to think that you must die in order to be reborn.”

***

We kissed once.

That night, it was the two of us, as usual.

But it was special because it was after the gallery. The one presentation—my art show and your photoshoot— that was supposed to send our careers skyrocketing and send us on the path to becoming rich. Which, in fact, it did; we were booked completely afterwards, day and night.

Our agents gave us the night off as a reward, but, unable to decide how to spend it, we found ourselves back in the studio for another session.

We had already decided on doing a new take on our favorite myth – the flight of Icarus. So I drew the markings on the canvas of your skin with my finger, tattooing you with my ideas and visions.

Illustrating, defining, creating.

“Wait.”

Your barely audible voice breaks the delicate tranquility. I pull back, fearing what I didn’t know.

My eyes followed as you raised the wineglass that I had poured before we started and tipped the dark liquor into your mouth. I couldn’t help noticing the way your eyelids fluttered shut, the liquid stained your lips even redder.

Then, nodding, you answered my unspoken question.

Dipping again in the jar of fire, I raised my hand again to your face and smeared the pigmented paint on your cheek, my thumb leaving a trail of scarlet in its wake.

Then your eyes met mine and I involuntary shivered though I felt nothing cold. There was only full-hearted trust in those depths.

I knew it was only meant for me.

***

“Well, is there anyone who is with you today?”

“No.”

“No one to cheer for you? Do you feel lonely?”

“Why? I am never alone.”

***

My hands tentatively raised and cupped your face. You made no motion to move. Those depths, so unclouded by worldly things and so far-seeing, were focused only on me.

That was the only convincing I needed.

We were gravitating towards each other, as if the stars were falling into place, scarcely daring to breathe.

Closer… closer…

And closer…

***

“Well, I wish you luck, Icarus. And, seriously, please don’t drown.”

“Thank you for your concern. I won’t.”

***

The kiss was short, tantalizingly sweet despite the wine, and it would’ve been far shorter if you hadn't swiped your tongue over my lower lip, letting out an almost inaudible mewl of impatience.

I lost my mind. My hands immediately found slim hips and I lifted you onto the table, not caring that you knocked over the jars, that I was spilling the multicolored paints and liquor onto the floor.

Panting against my lips that never left yours for an instant, you hooked your legs around my torso and dragged piano fingers through my hair, tangling them in the strands. Our molding mouths parted slightly and we fell, together, too drunk on affection to feel the effects of the alcohol anymore.

Everything about this felt like it was meant to happen. Every tilt of the head and accidental bumping of noses, every heart-racing second when we would whisper the other’s name. Everything that I had ever dreamed of was finally there, just on the surface of your lips. Eyes closed, faces covered in paint, breaths shallow, and, even though it wasn’t planned, it was—

***

Splash!

I am too late.

Even though I had known that already, it doesn’t stop the sinking guilt in my chest from plummeting to the bottom as cheers and applause rises from the crowd.

Hastily pushing through the people and throwing absentminded Excuse me’s and I’m sorry’s over people’s shoulders, I search for you along the waterfront, your name on my lips and in my mind like the lyrics of a song on a broken record.

Yixing… Yixing… Yixing…

Then there you are and I catch my breath as everything in the universe goes in slow motion.

As you step from the harbor, your long hair is decorated with beads of water that slips down your proud nose, past those after-storm eyes, settles on your watercolor lips. Your quietly burning presence is the only color against backdrop of the gray-slate heavens.

Absolutely perfect

To the rest of the world, you are only a contestant in hundreds, with amateur props, a passing score, and a strange name.

But, to me, you are the water-born phoenix rising from the smoky-gray ashes, more free and beautiful than before, spreading your own wings against the muted sky.

I gaze into those serene depths and know the way your inner light outshines the shy sunlight that dapples your smooth features.

And all I can do is breathe.

----

Wow, this took a long time. Aaaand more edits OTL 

Just for reference, the festival that I'm referring to is a New Zealand festival that I attended called the Birdman Festival. In short, contestants dress up and jump into the harbor and they are judged on creativity and how long they stay airborne. So yup! Any questions feel free to ask!

Thank you to the 20 of you who subbed before I finished :3 Hope I didn't disappoint you!

Thanks again for reading~