The painter sighed and thoughtfully stroked his beard
Whilst staring at another portrait of his soul
This one, he thought, almost involuntarily,
this one is different
He knew not where this thought came from
It seemed the only thing his work had in common with itself was
Difference
Usually he didn’t have the patience to look at them once they were finished
And something had been wrong with this one, missing from it
It had been three years since he drunkenly stumbled into his seedy apartment
Merriment and sorrow exchanging soulful kisses within him
Slashing at the canvas like a lover scorned, he had made…
What exactly?
He didn’t know
And yet for a long time
It was incomplete
He had tried everything to finish it
Drugs. Sleep deprivation. More drugs.
Anything that would change his mind state so that he might return to his work
And leave from it, successfully imprinting whatever it is that we’re made up of
Anything that would make him remember
That he painted to make himself real
And one night it came.
One solitary black line across the painting.
And it was finished
He didn’t understand it, felt it rather than knew it
He sighed once more
Something was indeed different about this one and he couldn’t place it
But life was for living and he soon became restless
And as he left his apartment
The black line on his painting became aware of itself
And as it asked itself why it was there
The painting spoke to it, answering,
“How else would I know how beautiful I am?”
The line shuddered and became a wave
But was straightened out immediately
By thoughts that bled art
Like the movement of everything around it.
