We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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The charcoal stains my knuckles and cheeks the same way Sylvester Stallone had been scourged black in one of his action franchises. I guess dreams do come true after all.
Sitting here in front of this canvas board for about eight hours now, I wouldn't be surprised if this is indeed a part of my dream. My eyes are threatening to shut out the black on the palette and go back to the visions of field lights, but I have been successfully keeping them focused on the lighthouse I am painting. To use the word painting is not entirely accurate, because I am way past watching those diy online tutorials about brush use and stroke techniques, and have resorted to make use of the only good body part I know as of now— my mucky hands.
If this was anytime back when the hot breeze of summer hit me through the sheer curtains of my room, I would have picked all the colours I could get my hands on. But lately, I have come to appreciate the wide range of black and all the possibilities it can depict. The moment I began to swirl the gritty charcoal on the canvas, a sense of calm coursed through me— beating the adrenaline I have craved for, my entire life. I know it sounds ominous, but it has made me realise I am good for a thing or two more than just kicking asses out in the field. Therapy's played a part too, no matter how bad I wanted to resent it.
In fact, I think I am going to sketch out a meadow for the next.
"George, you have got parcel," my mother announces out loud before entering my room with a pizza box like brown package in hand. I almost get excited at the prospect, but that feeling dies down as soon as I spot the pill bottles in her hand. She tries to be discreet about it, but there is no other way to say that I am screwed with these tiny, pale blue gems for the rest of my life. I get that I am supposed to take proper doses if I don't want to drag around wheely for years to come, but these things are no good for my upper body workout.
I don't know if I have gotten back to the meticulously carved lines on my chest, primarily because the only time I take a look in the mirror is while brushing my teeth and at times, bothering to wash the remnants of powdered charcoal off my face. But I do feel a contraction developing in my back every time I put the canvas aside and do a two minute stretch. It's not even about trying to keep a souvenir from when none of this had happened, but more about keeping a part of me that I have been embracing since I was eight and when I used to order those toy rubber dumbbells to keep fit.
"Don't forget to take these or I might have to keep tabs on you," she warns with a small smile and leaves the package along with the bottles on my bed.
I wouldn't worry about my mother checking on me every two hours though, the way my father does. He has been particularly splendid ever since I have been out of the team and in the house for the majority of time. Now he can try and shove brochures of internships at prestigious companies, right in my face. I almost paid attention to a couple of them, and that was my much needed cue to find a hobby, so that he can go back to gnarling at my interests. However, my happiness was short lived as I caught him observing one of my latest pieces sitting on my desk. I wouldn't go to the extent of saying he is coming around, but at least I have managed to keep his constant sighing at bay. Something which reminds me of the time I can't... I don't want to go back to.
