Two points of view, one story. A disconsolate world-renowned artist and an emotionless psychologist.
A story with twists and turns and comedy and romance, a story that is being written in hopes to keep you engaged.
Skies. Starry skies were probably the most captivating thing one could imagine. How in all of the darkness, little white dots of joy could twinkle and make our hearts melt a little each time they did so. I remember going to Alaska with Bryce when I was still a young boy of about 19, to see the Aurora Borealis and apart from Amanda, I never have enjoyed staring at something that much. The way the lights danced in the sky, taking anyone who laid their eyes upon it into a deep trance, prevailing over the darkness that spread otherwise, was divine, if nothing else.
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(Aurora Borealis)
I'd totally forgotten about this painting, yet it was probably something I was most proud of. I had somehow managed to capture some of the beauty of the actual scene one can see while looking out at the Northern Lights (since capturing the absolute gorgeousness was not mortally possible), and had, very unwillingly, sold it off to some Monacan hotelier.
"Why are we here?" I ask.
"I didn't know you could paint that well," she replied with a wide grin on her face.
"No seriously, what are you up to?" I ask, making sure my face looked like I was sulking.
"Why do you seem so irritated? Not like I knew your work is gonna be in this beat-up art gallery in Paris," she says, looking around in case someone was nearby.
"Well beat-up galleries are the only places that have my work in them now," I say, and start walking towards the entrance. I feel a harsh tug at my t-shirt, and I turn around, really pissed now.
"What the fuck do you want, Pepper?" I ask.
"I want you to get your worthless life on track," She half-yells, stopping midway, realizing she'd just insulted me. "I mean to overcome your fears you must...."
"Thanks," I say, push her aside, and bolt. I feel no hands stopping me.
I steal a cab someone else had called, and bark at the driver to take me back to the hotel. I pay him without paying attention to what I'm paying him (If you see his kid with new sneakers, you know who to thank) and I literally storm my way into the hotel, ignoring every greeting their overly polite staff offered me, and banged my door hard behind me.
I plonk onto the bed, get up within 10 seconds and get to work.
I stand there, contemplating the canvas. This was the hardest part of being a painter, looking at a blank surface, wanting to fill it without any idea about what to fill it with, striving to bring a scene to life in a better way than you ever have before.
But was it the hardest part? What about lovers that were the paint and the brush? Stored away, being made to meet on rare occasions. The brush waiting, longing to embrace the paint, and in a world of their own, to spread colour, literally. They met, and danced on their own stage, their grip on each other tightening and loosening with a flow of emotions that only they could fathom. Bound, yet vaguely free, they pranced around joyously, their bodies always in contact, and their affair captivating every onlooker. Happiest story ever.
I never knew how selfish I was being when I abandoned my paintings midway, when I separated them. The love of MY life would come and hold me, and I would swing her around passionately. We would bump into stuff, knock over vases, rattle up tables, tip over paint bottles, ending what was the best affair of all time. The brush would go dry with remains of its love still on it, and the paint would lay on the floor, colouring an entirely different surface.
Now I get it. Now, I get what the brush must've felt. The smell of the paint may have faded away, but it left the brush stiff and incapable of recreating the magic it used to.
And the paint? The paint is still on my carpet, and I'm still unwilling to remove it.
I let out a deep sigh. "This makes no sense," I say.
I lock my iPad, keep it aside and pour myself a glass of apple juice. Apparently the hotel staff had been instructed to keep me away from anything fermented, too.
I kick back on the recliner, looking out to the Parisian skyline, sipping on a kid's drink. What a scene.
