Hello once again and today we have something that I came up with literally on a whim the other day. I was just sitting and suddenly the idea popped into my head when I stretched up towards my ceiling. It all started with the first sentence of this piece and I suddenly evolved it into a sort of small look into a distraught artist’s life. After realizing that the first sentence was something that would really work I immediately got to writing it down and decided to just roll with the idea. This one’s a bit short for what it is, but it’s still something that I found quite entertaining for it’s simplicity. Though I do have a bunch of back log, I’ll probably save those for another day, since today I also came up with something that’s a little more intuitive than what I’m usually used to posting here. I’ll be sure to have the wood works done and have that idea come to fruition in the next few days. It’ll be interesting, that’s for sure. Anyway, here you go, “Seaside”.
Reaching up into the stars feels like reaching up towards my dreams, they’re both unattainable. I woke up in a fit, my papers scattered all along my bed side. I scratched my head in wistful indignation, and laughed at the notion of artistic medium. I shuffled over to the other side of my bed, scrambling papers on the way and peeked out of my curtain windows. The early morning sun shone on me like a beacon to humanity, like a rope to my neck dragging me towards what is known as human existence. I sometimes wished that that rope would tighten around my neck and never break.
I got up from my bed and moved to the washroom. I flipped on the light switch, giving me a small headache in the process, but I was pleasantly jolted back upon the image of my own face in the mirror. My hair was getting a little too long for me, a little too cumbersome, but I didn’t care to cut it either way. I looked at my eyes, dark rings circling them, and even my fingers were tattered in ink. I washed my hands, brushed my teeth, and watched as another day of futile dismay began.
I walked over to my desk, where I had cleaned most of its contents onto my bed and floor the previous night. My foot dangled below, playing a balancing act on a glass bottle that laid just under my chair. I reached under to bring it to my face, and laughed at the contents. Empty.
I grabbed one of many pencils from my holder and took out a sheet of paper. I then dragged my hand across one side to another, and then again, and then made new strokes, and new shades, connecting them to form a picture. I then repeated that process, until those pictures made a scene. I kept creating lines, shades, and form, quietly being endowed in the sounds of graphite scratching across fresh paper. It made my mind so indolent that the only thing I could hear for the session was scratching. Scratch and scratch and scratch. I couldn’t hear the sounds of the clock I had in the room, the wind brushing against my windows or even the soft entourage of waves that nestled just outside my small apartment window. Scratch and scratch and scratch. It scratched my mind how much I had heard that sound. I wanted to scream, to break something in the room, to run out into the beach and let the waves sweep me up into a deep sleep. I didn’t know why I was here, nor why I decided to put pencil to paper, to put form into space. Perhaps I knew at one point in my life, but not anymore. Scratch and scratch and scratch. I finally finished my picture. I put my pencil down and looked away without giving it a second thought. I then stretched and got out of my chair. Every bone in my body was forcing me back down, but every bone in my body was also tired from ennui. Suddenly, my senses came back to me, everything rushed towards my head, and I felt the rampant nature of the world around me. I heard the waves call to me. The waves always called to me.
I left my home aptly, putting on sandals, and rushing down the stairs of my small two floor apartment. I didn’t want to bump into anyone else here, and so I made it a notion to be both quiet and fast. But, after reaching the bottom of the stairs I had an epiphany. There was no way that I could be both quiet and fast.
I made a bee line to the beach, and this time, I took my time. I allowed everything around me to draw me in and drag me into an existence far beyond what I wanted. I wanted to be away from the rope that the sun had brought around my neck, because the ocean always had the knife. And I yearned to have that knife every time I woke up. I yearned to be somewhere away from where I am, away from the pictures I drew, away from my life as a beggar.
When I arrived at the beach, I took off both my sandals and allowed the grainy sand below to cover my feet. I made my way to the horizon line of the waves, and stood for the low tides. Every time the water washed into my feet, I felt a surge of cold reach up into my spine, and then it dissipated when the tide resided. I stood at the horizon line, looking into the distance as the water reflected the sun and made for a scene that I could only imagine being fictitious. Without even realizing, my hands began tracing something in the air. Lines, then shades, then form, then picture, then scene. Scratching and scratching and scratching. They all resided in my head and it made me want to scream. I wanted to scream, to break something, but I couldn’t. I sighed in the cold air of the beach, and sighed out the rest of my days. My favorite things to draw had always been of the night sky. I would stare into the sky through my balcony. I would let the low tides send me off into an abyss of deep water, and watch as the moon shone off the surface creating a scene that I could only imagine being fictitious. And the only thing I would think of when I draw the night sky is that reaching up into it was so evidently alluring and at the same time, too real for me to think about.