I am an artist. A painter, if you will. My home is art, much like my life. I suppose you could say I come from wealth, but it matters not. I spend my time in that same room. My creation room. Still trying to perfect that damn painting. It remains an empty canvas and it infuriates me. Nevertheless, I shall remain vigilant. Whitechapel has so few painters, and someone has to introduce some culture to this dreary city.
But this canvas. I need inspiration. A subject. Perhaps still life. Yes, still life. I will fetch a bowl of fruit. Colorful and vibrant.
This is my first entry and I suppose I'm using this journal as a form of escape from a madness that dwells at my doorstep from anger at no end in sight to this piece. My name is Johnathan Wakefield. I think? All my time and thoughts have been going towards this painting. I haven't the time to even recollect my own name.
Forgive me.
YOU ARE READING
Artist
HorrorThrough the broken brushes, ruined canvases, and empty pastels, I write my story.
