Excerpts from Books I'll Never Write

eight

Unpopular opinion: I love the rain. It sparks something in me, something raw, something passionate. Vibrant streaks flow onto the canvas, my brush a form of escape I can't reach any other way. Lighting strikes, and I slash the painting violently, thick swatches of color contrasting, fighting each other. A battle is happening between my eyes and the easel, a war between my aesthetics and and a desperation for every color everywhere all at once. The oil paints splatter a bit, smearing crimsons across my cheek when I try to wipe it off. A black tile floor, once resembling wood, is now a peeling pool of pigment. I laugh at the walls, how white they once were. This room has become my palette, though the wooden stool I'm sitting on is clean, kept in nice condition for the rare occasion that I bring someone into the room. Every chipping brushstroke is a memory--almost as sacred as the stained apron I'm wearing. I would let rain in, but it feels like a betrayal of everything I have in here. Every throbbing headache, anger so powerful I can feel myself imploding. Or the sadness, the days so dark I can see my heart crumbling and touch the despair so thick it's clouding the room. Happiness is the worst, I am swept off my feet, hungry for a reason to smile, blurring every sense but lust. Washing away the walls of emotion, this fear the rain will clean the slate I'm clinging to, this is why I keep my windows closed.