Kikoku- Returning Home
帰国 Kikoku- Returning Home
The sun disappears behind the rows of the leafy and elongated trees; the divine jewels of the emerald forest grow proudly out of the palms of the earth’s soil. A winding stream of pure mountain water flows through the imperial forest. The trickling sound of water flowing over the pebbles leads to a valley of snow-white cherry blossoms. The robust smell of soil, floral and dampness fills my nostrils as a warm breeze sweeps my hair. I am finally home.
My final stroke sweeps elegantly across the tissue-thin rice paper as I gently lay my brush onto the ink stone. The black ink proliferates across the paper with its dampness clinging onto the surface of the low wooden table. I try to embrace the majesty of the moment but a burning throb at my temples escalates as beads of sweat creep down my flushed cheeks. My eyebrows curve into a frown and I wearily lift the paper up in front of me. My hand slightly trembles as my eyes trace the black outline of the colourless and lifeless flowers, a burning resentment formulated itself inside the pit of my stomach; they were void of any of their beauty.
Scrunching the paper, I drop it, letting it tumble onto the cream coloured tatami mat where endless sheets of scrunched up paper lay lifeless. It had been too many years since I painted with colours, my eyes have forgotten what they looked like.
It was a mistake to even come back. I quickly start for my leather handbag as the pang of regrets slowly form behind my eyes.
Ten years ago, I had left my home town, enthusiastic of the outside world and the artistic inspiration it would offer. At that time, I was clutching a map in one hand, and peeked out of the window as the majestic skyscrapers of the city blurred pass. I thought about the mesmerising architecture in Tokyo, which I’ve only read in books and wondered if I could be the first person to capture its grandiose presence with only a paintbrush and rice paper. But even though I was
The sun disappears behind the rows of the leafy and elongated trees; the divine jewels of the emerald forest grow proudly out of the palms of the earth’s soil. A winding stream of pure mountain water flows through the imperial forest. The trickling sound of water flowing over the pebbles leads to a valley of snow-white cherry blossoms. The robust smell of soil, floral and dampness fills my nostrils as a warm breeze sweeps my hair. I am finally home.
My final stroke sweeps elegantly across the tissue-thin rice paper as I gently lay my brush onto the ink stone. The black ink proliferates across the paper with its dampness clinging onto the surface of the low wooden table. I try to embrace the majesty of the moment but a burning throb at my temples escalates as beads of sweat creep down my flushed cheeks. My eyebrows curve into a frown and I wearily lift the paper up in front of me. My hand slightly trembles as my eyes trace the black outline of the colourless and lifeless flowers, a burning resentment formulated itself inside the pit of my stomach; they were void of any of their beauty.
Scrunching the paper, I drop it, letting it tumble onto the cream coloured tatami mat where endless sheets of scrunched up paper lay lifeless. It had been too many years since I painted with colours, my eyes have forgotten what they looked like.
It was a mistake to even come back. I quickly start for my leather handbag as the pang of regrets slowly form behind my eyes.
Ten years ago, I had left my home town, enthusiastic of the outside world and the artistic inspiration it would offer. At that time, I was clutching a map in one hand, and peeked out of the window as the majestic skyscrapers of the city blurred pass. I thought about the mesmerising architecture in Tokyo, which I’ve only read in books and wondered if I could be the first person to capture its grandiose presence with only a paintbrush and rice paper. But even though I was