Frame of Soul

Artist's Despair

The gentle waves were washing the lake's shore like a lover would fondle the hair of his beloved. Little wisps of foam swayed as wind touched the calm cerulean mirrored surface. There were long and wide stretches of woods surrounding the lake, slowly creeping towards the peak of a large solitary mountain which rose sky-high, almost touching the late afternoon sun.

Like an axe splitting a piece of firewood a long and narrow pier reached out into the water. It could fool many by its looks for it was painted grey and the wooden construction was rough and raw, yet the planks were flat and smooth as if made yesterday. In the middle of the pier lay a dog. Mind you, it was no ordinary pooch, it was the majestic breed of husky, tilting its head as the curious ones do, as if it was trying to understand an abstract dialogue of two astrophysicists. Its cyan eyes were radiating "wisdom" so convincingly, you'd almost think it could.

A little further inland there was a cabin, but you'd only ever see one wall and one window of the cosy abode - which could hold a full family of four and the clever dog as well. There was one more thing, positioned between the pier and the house, a kind of soul binding void of yet blank canvas.

You see, Matthew didn't know how to continue the painting. He knew exactly what should fill the eye-hurting abyss. The idea was rather simple - a girl. But he didn't know who the girl - more so a young woman - should be, how she should look like, what should she feel and be like.

Matt never met her - apart from a long forgotten dream. There was an ephemeral feeling inside him, his perception of "Her". For days he was trying to come close to it. And as he was creating the scenery and "Wolf" as Matt named the dog, there finally rose a more tangible vision, still just a flicker of her looks, but he had finally came to know the basic aspects of her appearance.

First came the eyes - the ones he has always subconsciously searched for on the streets - blue eyes with drops of rainbow. Vivid and kind, frisky yet smart. Later on he had decided about her hair, natural brown which varied in shades depending on the mood and angle of sunlight. There was no particular reason for this colour, except that Matt couldn't think of a hue more fitting "Her". Yes, "Her", that's how he called her, for to think of a name was beyond his wildest of dares.

And so, after countless period of time he had spent starring into the void, Matt began to sketch the simplest of curves. He let his hand draw them, rather than willing the hand to draw. She appeared slender, a shadow of the wind, waving and writhing as he was unsure of the figure he set to create. Absentmindedly he drew her hands gracefully touching each other and resting on her belly, right palm entwining left hand's thumb - one would think it insecure, but in Matt's vision it was a sign of purity, kindness and loyalty. He painted her in a white summer dress and let her legs bare to touch the soft of grass.

By now he had already made a foundation to build details on, but it still felt like a cool shade whirling under heat, he needed to breathe life into her. There already was a lot about her which he craved - the slim shape of her body, appearing fragile, yet somehow reminiscing of survival; the cuteness of her pose and the forming smile upon her not yet finished lips. Slow and steady Matt began to shape her real.

But such task was nearly impossible - fully in Matt's mind. Desperate about his failure of even thinking about her facial contours, he began to drink. A shot of honeyed whiskey followed up by a long sip of beer, shook it off and drank some more. Starring into what was to be "Her's" face, his frustration didn't cease to rise. No amount of liquor seemed to help, but Matt didn't want to give up, not when he was so close, so close to finally get to know how she looks like - and so he drank on and on.

Insomniac, agitated, drunk and on the verge of rage. Despair took its toll as he resumed his project. Matt wouldn't admit it, but he was still getting over a break-up. It had been more than half a year and though it was him who had decided to end the relationship, his soul was filled with guilt, his mind full of "what-ifs" and his heart darker than the depths of universe. The reasons why he had done it are unimportant to this story, the only thing that matters is that the painting was to be a sort of relief, to ease the pain. "Her" should have taken the place in his mind instead of "her".

His wretched mind, intoxicated and ever-doubtful now awoke to a state of fury he'd never felt before. He hit the canvas violently, stroke after stroke, madly trying to capture the perfect beauty of "Her's" face. And so it happened that Matt broke through the linen with a sudden silence so deep it made him shiver to the bone and crumble with fear. But the alcohol in his veins didn't like fear, it pushed his mind and made him cry out loud in agony, scaring the neighbours. In the last attempt of a broken will, Matt took the painting and wanted to throw it against the sealed window. And so he would have done - were it not for his dizzy alcoholic highs - and so he would have done - not forgetting about the picture still being mounted - and so he ... and so he lost his balance and began to fall, spotting the blur of waves and trees and dogs and girls as he was about to hit the floor. And he did. He did hard.

Until there was but blackness.