Paint

Today marks the third time I have painted over this awful canvas. Actually, the canvas itself is not awful at all. No, it is what I have painted on it that I cannot stand.

I was once able to paint masterpieces; ones that would have people's heads turn and eyes examine every perfectly placed line. During a community art exhibition last summer, my artwork moved some to tears. That level of emotional response is quite an accomplishment for an abstract piece. The brushstrokes danced and twirled across the background in the most inviting manner paint can convey. I imagine that those who wept that day felt lonely and lost, and my art reminded them that life would always take care of those who need it.

Yet the warm hues transition to dark, and the graceful strokes lose their elegance, as is the way life unfolds. My most recent artwork has the aura of a woman who has given up. However, I hope to change my downhill trajectory by painting over this canvas one more time.

My past attempts on this piece have resulted in muddy colors and careless lines. Third time is allegedly the charm, though I highly doubt that this proverb is grounded in reality. Though I'm trying to keep my thoughts positive, my mood disagrees. The past paintings peek through the white coat in certain spots, taunting me. I will not let it do so.

And so here we are, paintbrush in hand, me in front of the canvas, and it staring back at me.

Five hours later and I'm painting the finishing touches on the disaster I call my art. Third time is actually the finale of a dying performance. I do not bow; instead I opt to follow the somber stretch of ground leading towards the trashcan. I toss my failed attempt at redemption away, hoping to never burden my eyes with its inadequacy again.

I move through the next two weeks with little movement. I mostly stay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what led me up to this point in my life. Maybe it is not a mere point. Maybe this is my life now. It certainly feels like this will last forever. And I'm coming close to acceptance of this possibility.

I somehow muster up the motivation to get in the car and drive around. I do not have a destination in mind, and it seems appropriate to not have a goal to achieve at the end of my drive. My life has no end goal anyway. No one's does, in fact. The achievements we think we accomplish are only a way to soothe our fears of dying unremembered, but that is how over ninety-nine percent of the population ends up. We will all be unremembered and unimportant in the end. So why should I bother painting a silly picture?

I catch sight of an antique store, which interrupts my wandering thoughts. I do not know why my immediate reaction was to pull over, and I do not know why I am interested in the first place. Nothing has interested me the past few weeks, and this decrepit shop has somehow broken through my wall of disinterest.

Once I enter the store, I start meandering through the aisles, taking time to examine and observe each and every object. I ponder upon the possible histories and backstories of the items, and what brought them here. It provokes thoughts about what brought me here, but this time I mean in a more literal sense. What enticed me to visit this little shop?

And then I find the answer to my question hung by one of the dusty, grimy corners in the back.

It is the painting I banished from my home two weeks ago.

I fall to my knees and cry. My emotions are a mix of confusion, sorrow, and anger. But above all, I feel hatred. I feel hatred towards myself, hatred towards whoever found my failure and brought it here, and hatred towards the painting. My tears do nothing to calm the storm brewing in my heart. In my head, I start screaming.

"Why must my failures come back to haunt me?"

"Why me?"

"Why?!"

However, it is not only my head that these words flow through. My mouth wails these exclamations for the entire world to hear, including the shopkeeper. She asks me to leave as politely as she can, and considering the disturbance I have created, she sustains an impressively calm composure. I cannot say the same for myself, as my composure has deteriorated into one not unlike a lunatic's. I maintain the fit of rage my painting has brought on, and so through the sounds of my sobs, I hear the shopkeeper call the police.

My fury turns outward as I begin to destroy the painting and anything it may have touched while being carried in and hung, which I assume is everything in the store, just to be absolutely sure that the epitome of my failures will leave no trace behind.

Though I have essentially destroyed everything adjacent to the painting, my rage knows no bounds. In order to satisfy the burning desire to start over, I must destroy all that is beautiful. I can hear the sirens of calamity in the distance, so I must accept that I am limited to only wiping away the beauty of this little shop in the time that I have left.

I smash vases and glassware with my fists until my fingers ooze the blood of true accomplishment. I shred vintage photos, each one meaning I have stolen a beautiful moment and erased it from time. I knock over the shelves until none are left standing, so no one else will ever know the beauty of the items displayed. I scratch at my arms until I am content with how beautifully destroyed they look. But my fury endures.

Police surround the building now. They do not understand the beauty that arises from destruction. When I painted, I thought that the painting was beautiful because I had created something out of a blank canvas. In reality, it was beautiful because I had destroyed the purity of the blank canvas by painting on it. All that is beautiful is beautiful because something was destroyed to make it.

Life is beautiful because it is slowly being destroyed by death.

Why must it be slow for me?

I want to be beautiful now instead of later.

I am tired of my decisions leading me to another sliver of life.

This decision will lead me to something better.

I scan the room for something sharp, and I find a sufficiently large shard of glass that came from the frame of my painting. I grasp it with both hands and take my final deep breath.

My thoughts race for a moment. I am nervous. No, I am confident. I am uncertain. No, I am sure. I am a failure. No, I am beautiful, especially now.

I shove the glass into my heart cavity and twist. In this very moment, I feel no pain, only relief. I am free from the dismal bonds of life. I am liberated from the failures that burden me. I am released from the ugliness of the living world, for now I have been destroyed.

And I am finally beautiful.