This is a short story(?) I wrote about how well, you decide.
Is the sun still up? Or has it been replaced by the moon? Does it really matter? Here in the workshop, in the mind of the painter, the artist, the addict, it is of little consequence. Paint tubes, spray paint cans and brushes lay around haphazardly across the bench top. No particular order was obvious, but each item had been placed exactly where it was meant to be, and each location would be remembered when it was needed. The piece of art, the painting, the window to the soul (as some people call pieces of art, and rightly so) was laid out on the wooden bench top.
Almost complete or so it seemed, but can something like this every truly be complete? Can all the pain, frustration, anger and agony ever truly be translated to canvas?
The painting in question was an amazing mash of colours; at first look anyone seeing it might think it was done without care, without thought, but this was no random mix and match of colours, no. Each shade, stroke and colour had been placed exactly where it was supposed to be, each slash told a different story. The painting itself could not be called dull nor bright, for it was both. Black reached from corner to corner with specks and strokes of almost every colour under the sun, yet somehow the black tainted almost each and every one of them. It definitely could not be called bright.
The painting told a story, the feeling behind each line of colour was a thousand voices, begging, pleading, yelling and insulting. Each touch of paint was emotion, anger, hopelessness, determination, regret and a tangible clear longing. Longing for what can never be given.
Despite the noise of the voices, and the crashing waves of emotion, the work must be finished. In the centre of the canvas was the only white spot and in the centre of that clear canvas the words “God Help Me” were stark, clear and red. The red of blood, the red of a setting sun, a red that screams out to all who will listen. Only he who painted those words truly knows what they mean. A plea of desperation? Or a sigh of resignation? Either way the work must be finished, each slash and line placed exactly where it was meant to go and maybe then, only then, will clarity be granted.
god put his paint brush aside.
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