So, what happens when two souls intertwine, two talents fill the craters of each other's muses? What happens when the creatives, create something.. even more creative..? It all started off, in the middle of art class. Visualisation of a being- live in the flesh. Vulnerable, naked. That was the inspiration. Felt like that, a stroke of a brush on an empty canvas. Vulnerability of expression, passion of a stroke. The breeze simmered through the windows, and blew his hair over the bridge of his glasses. Oh I'm sorry, the real story starts here, I just thought I'd blabber on for a while, in the mean time you'd be intrigued enough to know what in the bloody hell was going on.
He ran his fingers over the smooth textures of the rough draft that laid before him. Wooden stand, papers on paper, ironic isn't it? How something that used to be natural, turns into something that's only natural when you know what to do with it. His pencils, all different colours of the spectrum of the rainbow- his paint also stayed obsolete in a palette of choices he was certainly uncertain of making. He was among five other people in a class with a model drawn, from different perspectives, different views, different angles. That's the thing about art. It comes alive when you see things from a different angle, it's almost as if it becomes a different world to one that you're living in already.. but the only difference is, in your fantasy art world, you're allowed to have flaws. And the only critic behind it, would be yourself. The face he drew, stared back at him, his brown eyes that hid behind his glasses, under the strands of hair that fell from his head. It was quite mysterious, yet empowering, he was staring at a face that seemed dead, but a face that stared back at him, was a face that was very much alive... just very beautiful.
She sat on a table, sideways. One leg raised but bent. Whilst the other was crossed underneath it, like water under a bridge. Her back was straight, her left arm covered the gap between her thighs, her right arm rested on the edge of her knee, while the side of her head lay tilted on the face of her palm. She gazed at him, he took peeks of her ever so often. He was obsessed with detail, she was obsessed with the attention. Her small eyes peered from the mask she was wearing, the mascara ran down her cheek, it's as far as the mask went too. The mask was embezzled with pearls, diamonds and shards of dark, crimson garnet ran across the edges of the darkness she wore upon her cheeks. Her light brown eyes stood out from it all, they captured you in her walls and trapped your very being, which is why she looked at him, his attention wasn't to be captured by her spell. Her nose sleek, slender. It was the perfect nose, but hidden away due to the illusion of her mask. Her lips, big. but not too big, for they were the type to draw you in, even deeper than her eyes, and seal your fortune. He wasn't one to be swayed by visual desire, he wasn't one to be swayed by the muse. He wasn't one to be enchanted by the spell, he fell in love with the spell itself, and what's more misunderstood about that? Just knowing you're not swept by the invention, just the inventor. That's the thing, art sweeps you away, it's just the meaning behind it- it takes you further away than you've planned on going. Mystery lays behind the masks we wear, which hide our true intentions to the eyes of another, which is why anonymity is a treasure most people find, to foreclose their pain.
Five more people in the room, all staring at one thing- her. They stayed drawing, sketching, he stopped and stared ever so often to analyse details and flaws that stuck out like thorns in a room full of roses. They sat fixated as she wore nothing but laced lingerie that looked even more beautiful than her, herself. Her skin, so soft, sleek and slender, laced with the darkness that made her look like she was more than art itself. What made her stand out even more, the badly lit room only showed her flaws. Highlights, flaws, they're both the same thing. It's only what stands out to you, that you don't like, is what's considered a flaw. The song played, very brisk 'You belong to the temporary moments of a dream..' whispered into the ears of everyone in the room.
The bell rang, the other five rushed to leave the room. He took his time to pack his things, his pencils and his colours. He picked up his canvas, and put it in the locker hidden in the far corner of the room. He put his hat back on, sighed and put his canvas back in the locker. He took his utensils and packed them back into his backpack, then put on his grey hoodie, then wore his black trench coat that hid away his body. He put his hood up, then put his arm through the strap of his backpack with one strap hanging astray. He put his headphones on, and left one out, full volume to the point where one was hanging out of his hoodie but you could still hear the sound leak out of it. He briskly made eye contact with her, and smiled. He then walked towards the door, opened it.. and felt a tug on his right arm. She had taken her mask off.
"Jermayn.. we need to talk."
