Flowing Flawlessly

Chapter I

Every day I come to the cliff just off of highway sixty-four. I tug my canvases and oil paints along with me in the back of my old Chevrolet pick-up truck so that I can sit on the rocks and paint the sea. Sometimes I don't paint at all— I just look out over the horizon and talk to the waves below as they crash against the rock. It's strange that talking to water is easier for me than talking to other human beings. I haven't ever had friends other than the occasional pity induced girls that thought they needed to be nice and invite me to things like I was some charity case.

My social anxiety and awkwardness has always created a blockade whenever I try to open up to someone. My mental illnesses entrap me in my mind, leaving me alone with no one who understands.

The water doesn't have to understand, though. It listens and stays there even though it's constantly changing. That's what makes it such an interesting model for my paintings. I can paint the same image time and time again, but every one is different. I sit at the cliff and paint the same spot but each time the waves are doing something different and the sky is a different color.

I suppose the always-changing scape reminds me of myself. I never wake up the same. It's a new battle each day and even though my social life takes a hit, I couldn't be happier with my life. I love my family and my paintings. I love my art studio that is in the loft of my small house that lies just minutes from the cliff. I love the ocean and the feeling it brings me each time I visit.

I drove down the winding highway, the turn-off to the cliff approaching. My long hair blew around my face as I turned onto the dirt road. Rolling up my window so no dust gets in my truck, a smile graced my lips. The day is overcast and the waves are churning viciously. As I near the rock ledge, I stop my truck and get out. I pull my hood from my sweatshirt over my head and grab my supplies then take them to the rock I typically sit on. The rock sits about four feet from the edge, giving me the thrill of being close to the thing I love most and a better view of the water below.

I set my easel up, gently placing my canvas on it as I spread my paints out on the rock. The rock was stained from spilt paint tubes and the sight was comforting. It was a mess, but it was my mess.

The wind lapped at my face teasingly, tempestuously swaying my easel. I ran back to my truck to grab weights and clips. I placed a bag of sand on the bar that connects both sides of the wooden stand then placed the clips on two sides of the canvas to keep it in place. I tucked my hair behind my ear and began to paint.

Today I decided to incorporate the rocks more into the work. I typically just focus on the roaring waves rather than the rocks that they slam into. I grinned widely as I drew the outline of the rocks in pencil then started on the waves first. That's the easiest part so I decided to get it out of the way. Minutes passed by in a breeze and then the water was gracefully done. Painting water has become mechanical for me. I look at the day's patterns then transfer them to the canvas.

"Gosh, the beauty of you never ceases to amaze me," I murmured towards the sea.

I quickly did the sky then got up to look closer at the rocks below. I don't paint them normally, so I feel excitement coursing through me at the opportunity. I'm proud I forced myself to finally change it up a bit, but at the same time nervous. The nagging fear that I'll fail never leaves me. It's the anxiety I suppose.

My feet tread carefully to the very edge of the cliff and looked about a hundred yards down at the jagged rocks. The dips and curves of each one was strikingly different. I stood to to admire them, subconsciously inching a bit closer. A sudden crack filled my ears, but I thought nothing of it. The rocks below must be taking a hit.

I was proved wrong when the ledge beneath me gave way, sending me flying down the cliff. Free-falling to my death.