there were days when she was certain she could create something beautiful. no delusions about a literary masterpiece or a mona lisa (damned if she knew what was so special about that portrait anyway)- simply a piece that would prove that she had something worth saying. days became years, and still this work never materialized; it remained a vague, gray-blue cloud lazily bumping against the walls of her intestines, unknown to anyone but herself. there were many times when she put pen to paper, paintbrush to canvas- and then her hand froze. what was it exactly that she was trying to say? something profound about love, life, inequality, or the pointlessness of human existence and struggle? hadn't everything worth saying already been said? unable to break out of this paralysis, she put down the pen and paintbrush. tomorrow it will come, she told herself, and turned on the tv.
over time, she paid less attention to the gray-blue cloud in her gut. attempts to appease it (or fulfill it?) always turned out disappointing and dissatisfying, and so she preferred to mostly ignore it altogether. it was easier to live without pondering the whys and hows of living, to just go through the motions alongside everyone else, who presumably were also just going through the motions of life: working, eating, paying bills, going out, raising children, feeding pets.
then came a time when she met someone who, seemingly overnight, came to occupy all of her mental and metaphysical energy. this was an unexpected event; she was under the impression that she knew pretty much all life had to offer her, and had not been expecting any surprises. she found that her previously good-enough life routines now turned flat and colorless when this someone was not present. it was more than unpleasant.
at this time, the gray-blue cloud inside of her began to vibrate. she had the idea that she could create something so beautiful that it would seize this person's attention. she would make something so powerfully compelling that this person, upon seeing it, would recognize the beauty that lived within her, and would hunger to be near her beauty. art, rather than a means of making vague comments about the human condition, would now be a message encoded for exactly one person.
so, once again, she picked up her pen, her paintbrush, ready to make beauty and change the course of her life. and, once again, nothing came. what could she possibly say that would stand out from what already existed in the world? there was nothing unique about her predicament; the radio was constantly blaring overproduced pleas for love and attention, not many of which were especially beautiful. why add more noise to an already deafening world? and what if this person did not see beauty in what she created, in this piece that had been specifically created for him? what would happen if she exposed her soul on canvas and this person did not recognize it? she put down her pen, put away her paintbrush. the risk was overwhelming.
over time, she paid less attention to the gray-blue cloud in her gut. attempts to appease it (or fulfill it?) always turned out disappointing and dissatisfying, and so she preferred to mostly ignore it altogether. it was easier to live without pondering the whys and hows of living, to just go through the motions alongside everyone else, who presumably were also just going through the motions of life: working, eating, paying bills, going out, raising children, feeding pets.
then came a time when she met someone who, seemingly overnight, came to occupy all of her mental and metaphysical energy. this was an unexpected event; she was under the impression that she knew pretty much all life had to offer her, and had not been expecting any surprises. she found that her previously good-enough life routines now turned flat and colorless when this someone was not present. it was more than unpleasant.
at this time, the gray-blue cloud inside of her began to vibrate. she had the idea that she could create something so beautiful that it would seize this person's attention. she would make something so powerfully compelling that this person, upon seeing it, would recognize the beauty that lived within her, and would hunger to be near her beauty. art, rather than a means of making vague comments about the human condition, would now be a message encoded for exactly one person.
so, once again, she picked up her pen, her paintbrush, ready to make beauty and change the course of her life. and, once again, nothing came. what could she possibly say that would stand out from what already existed in the world? there was nothing unique about her predicament; the radio was constantly blaring overproduced pleas for love and attention, not many of which were especially beautiful. why add more noise to an already deafening world? and what if this person did not see beauty in what she created, in this piece that had been specifically created for him? what would happen if she exposed her soul on canvas and this person did not recognize it? she put down her pen, put away her paintbrush. the risk was overwhelming.
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