Daedalus

here we go again

"I'm working on something new, something interesting," the young artist announces. His legs squirm in the bar stool upon which his bottom presses, unable to contain whatever it is that he seeks to declare, and his fingers grip the mahogany of the counter as if he's slipping off of the ledge of stability. He is completely enamored by what he holds within him, by what he hopes to share, and he fully commands the room.

"Oh?" the young artist's adopted sister, Sybil, prompts, shifting in her seat but not nearly as much as her brother. This kind soul is nothing short of adept at stirring people's excitements. "What would that be?"

The artist, a chipper fellow by the name of Lent Rosella, accepts his sister's infatuation with a smile, but he wastes no time with his reception, as he's wholly devoted to what he has to say. "I've started to explore emotions in my paintings, and how they manifest in humans with a backdrop of symbolism."

"Very intriguing, Lent," Sybil's wife, Fleming, comments from behind the bar, where she stands idly. "I look forward to seeing what you produce."

Noticing that Lent has calmed down enough for the subject to be diverted, Sybil redirects the conversation to me. "Basil, how is your writing?" Somehow, through her stunning perceptiveness, Sybil has not detected that I hate when conversations concern me, and if she has, then she simply doesn't give a shit, and I suppose I can understand why; brooding doesn't enlighten the soul, though I'm still not enthusiastic about answering her questions — everyone despises forced assistance until they realize that it helped them, but I have yet to break the fourth wall.

I do not address Sybil with eye contact, finding that to be a gesture far too intimate for someone like me, so I only drown my vision in my short glass of lemonade as I attempt on many fronts to avoid discussions about myself. "Oh, it's fine." That's how I leave it, as Sybil did not ask anything else of me. She did not ask what I am writing, or what my writing represents, or how I feel about my writing, only if it's going well, and I answered the damn question.

Sybil is never one to settle for the bare minimum, however, having earned the title of valedictorian when she was in high school, so she throws more heaps of pressure down on me until it seems as though blood will drip from my nose at any moment. "Cynics like you never mean it when they say they're fine. How is your writing, really?"

It is a fool's move to assume that Sybil Rosella will not be at your neck constantly until she receives what she came to receive. I'm not saying that I appreciate it, just that it's an inevitable circumstance that I would much rather do without, but it is an inevitable circumstance that is still unfortunately inevitable. I detest succumbing to it.

On the contrary, silence rarely wins any battles. If I say nothing, then you can bet that Sybil will be screaming at me until she can wake me from this elective coma, and I will be conscious for all of it, including the point where all of my friends realize that I am either dysfunctional, or my response details something embarrassing. Besides, there's nothing scandalous about the fact that I haven't written anything in a week. Sybil is aware that I am not a machine programmed to spew out eloquence at all points during the day. She is aware that I am human, and humans take breaks. Humans fluctuate on graphs documenting motivation. Sometimes we can only write twelve words per day, and sometimes we can write twelve thousand. It's conditional, and Sybil is intelligent enough to comprehend that.

"I feel that I am at a loss of inspiration," I finally admit, which is a step grand enough to ignore the fact that I am still pooling my gaze into my lemonade. "I've been living in this dreary old place we call Milwaukee for nineteen dreadful years, and nothing ever changes here. I seek something new, something enticing."