Eroding core

07 | A Slap of Art

Life itself is temporary, so by what right do I search for eternity in things?
Yet, I still prayed earnestly for it to last.

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Rina is a saint, and saints don’t lie.

"This is what I love most about my space. It doesn’t matter how many hours I spend here or how many times I open this door to be greeted by warm air; it always feels like the beginning of a journey, as if it’s the first time my eyes have touched the place. But unlike my heart, which always yearns for this embrace and cherishes it like the features of a lover."

I whisper, smiling, afraid to miss any detail around me.
"It stirs life within the soul."

He nods, heading toward a corner table.
"Tea without sugar?"

Ah, Rina...
"No, bitter coffee. And would it be rude if I asked whether you have some dark chocolate?"

He raises his eyebrows in surprise, chuckling as he starts making the coffee.
"Take a seat. I can’t wait to read to you after the piece you gave that blonde."

I ask eagerly, my heartbeat quickening as I take in the paintings scattered everywhere.
"May I take a look, Mr Miller?"

He nods with a kind smile.
"Go ahead. Here’s your bitter coffee with a piece of dark chocolate, Miss."

..

I step lightly from painting to painting. My right hand lingers on one, and as I move left to the next, my gaze keeps pulling back to the first, as if my eyes—or perhaps my heart or soul—can't get enough. Something small inside me craves more art, insatiable.

I don't fully understand what art does to me, but I know it makes me feel.

Rina often tells me that she will never write as well as I do, that she wasn't born for it. She believes she was meant to devour all the books in the world, while I was made to write them.

But what Rina doesn't realize is that I will never write like her either. Her writing is transparent, sincere, and grounded in reality. Rina writes what her eyes and heart see, while I write what I glimpse through the shattered windows of my soul. My eyes are veiled, distorting reality with emotions, nightmares, and energies.

It’s as if I wasn’t meant to write to comfort readers but to drown them in my words, to wrap them in fear, confusion, and unease. My writing is like a nightmare... like the day I saw the devil embrace me and dress me in a new skin.

The emotions my words evoke are not something I love about myself, but something I deeply enjoy controlling others through language, reshaping their minds, and planting venom in their hearts. Not the sweet poison Rina masters, mine is raw and destructive.

My gaze falls on a portrait of Niccolò Machiavelli, one of Rina’s favorites. His piercing stare seems to pierce my soul, a sly smile on his lips, as if he knows my truth, my deceptive, parasitic nature, as my mother puts it. My truth as a devil unloved by God.

Dear Niccolò... Humans are just meaningless piles of letters, heavy bodies filled with hollow thoughts. Can I erase their words? Fill their minds? Rearrange their stories? Should I cleanse these filthy creatures?

I move to another painting, and my eyes widen in awe.
"It’s beautiful!"

..