13 July 2012
A long day has come to pass,
Inky fingers entwine, push against one another, cracking quietly as
the artist stretches,
he rubs at his eyes, transferring a wash of colour onto his hot red
cheeks, bright from the strain of artistic adrenalin
the room is silent now, if not for the light popping of the fire
and a cat in the corner, purring gently as she sleeps, and dreams of
things that only felines do
The artist is in a trance-like daze, pulling back from the imaginary
world that he has occupied
Is a life wasted, if spent on dreams?
This room feels so strange, yet so familiar, so dull, yet welcoming
A glance at the clock betrays the time, it's already morning
He stares at his work, taken aback by the lines, the vivid image
spilled out on the canvas
As if admiring someone else’s art; he marvels at the complexities
the subtle washes, the brights, the darks
His dreams are there, bleeding into the canvas
and he feels nothing but exposed
He shivers slightly, picks up the painting, and places it carefully
into the fire
The smell of burning paper, and traces of paint fill his nostrils
It's cleansing that fire, the heat, the warm orange
So inviting, yet deceivingly hostile
He breaks the spell
Breaks free from his dreams, from his art
Returns to his life of mediocrity
and secrets
Till he dares to dream again
The Artist • Opuss № I