The choice

Do we all have a choice?

The paints and brushes have no choice. Their life depends on what the artist desires to show, wants to tell and aches to discover.

The colour smoothly sinks onto the pale, dead-looking surface of a canvas. It seems to devour the image like an unknown beast and looks to be jealous of my paintbrush that makes every inch of its flat surface come alive, interact and arise, but this silly thing doesn’t know that it delivers a fantastically overwhelming story that unveils with every rapid stroke of my hand. The paints lay deadly: some smooth and vibrant, some edgy and dark and some rough and threatening.

I am the master of my life, my work, to whom the eternity of doors is open, leaving me the infinity of choices... My mind is a traveller, attracted to the maleficent mystery, the fascinating fantasy, the strange story.

«I can create- I claimed to my canvas, my victim that spills the blood, spills the truth- but I can destroy» I criminally whispered, and a vicious smile marked its appearance on my face. A powerful stroke went across the victim.

I giggled.

There is no time in the kingdom I create, there is no suffering, no loss, only the loss I illustrate…it is everlasting. I glanced around, freezing my stare at the watch, which stated it was too early. And indeed, there were no people gazing at my new born masterpiece, no one to see the holy blessing I present to this world. The streets seemed dead as the dawn delicately submerged each crack and speck of dust.

Silence. Loss. And? Death...

I stood on the bridge, looking down to the attacking water suffocating boats and… the rocks. My arm burst into repeating swinging motions recreating the pure evil image.

I made it come alive. I made it immortal.

You want details, don’t you?

I painted the beauty of how the bright iridescent light reflected in the deep alluring waters of London, creating a significant mirage of pearls and diamonds on its surface that seemed to heavily breath as each wave curled across its colossal body and hid within the secretive silky waters. I made it seem like an endless, pure night sky filled with blurred stars of hope and inspiration.

Melancholic.

This view, satisfactory to a perfectionist’s eye, was however shattered by a sharp shifting shadow. A pathetic creature. Her innocent golden locks dissolved in the foaming waves as they rolled over the hopeless pitiful body that still appeared to fight with its inevitable fate. Air from her lungs formed a variety of clear bubbles playfully interacting with the fierce waters. Her eyes, as deep and dark as the water, were exhaustedly pulled wide open from suffering. She noiselessly screamed for help as her arms unsuccessfully attacked the unstoppable waves. I showed how uncertain human life is, how vulnerable, weak and helpless it is compared to the persistent river and its boisterous destructive nature.

My treasure was eye-opening. It would lead sinful souls to the angels, who were smiling from the puffing lush clouds that led tiny gaps of most pure light through its snowy fluff. It was holy.

My thoughts faded with every new figure that sneaked onto the street. I gazed around. They do not yet know about the invention. I still attacked my canvas with new lines, dimensions, shadows. Perfection was -

«No!»

«Is she dead?!»

They saw it. Oh, how sweet is the feeling of pure arrogance tingling on my tongue! The mission is complete. They saw my painting.

«Help!Help!»

«Someone call the police!»

I smiled from the soul-awakening euphoria that filled my vessels, my heart, my mind.

I did it.

A random stranger quietly approached me through the hubbub of tightly packed bodies and gazed at my painting. His eyes blindly shone with an intense spark of confusion that faded but was instantly replaced by hate. His face turned into a terrified grimace full of disgust, his mouth swollen with anger.

«You don’t like my painting?» I noticed, innocently offended by his reaction.

His teeth chattered with fury.

«Freak!» was his response as he turned around and violently rushed through the crowd, pushing, hitting and striking to get through.

I chose art over life.

It was a life painting