1.
There it is; that blank canvas. Taunting me with it's woven thread, paler -- barely -- than the skin I'm wrapped in. It's a sore sight.
I can't put a brush to it's surface. For days it's sat in isolation, almost quarantined from the other zones of my home. The wait seems easy on it, as it takes it's toll on me.
Perhaps the burden of artistry is one I cannot bear. Even still, with perseverance, I feel I've squandered too many a chance at success. Two paintings submitted, neither accepted. It's a dog eat dog industry.
I would give anything for my craft. I'll die before I relinquish myself to mundanity. True art cannot be valued without sacrifice from the crafter; and I've sacrificed. No one knows the lengths that have been crossed, then recrossed to achieve something that ultimately fails. This time I won't fail.
Pacing back and forth. Beads of sweat forming above my brow, rolling slowly down my caverned cheeks and sunken eyes. Sacrifice takes the form of financial support. Giving up food supplies for your work.
Shirts lay in piles next to a mattress inflated with the very air I breathe. I gave up rest for my painting. A single dining chair, separated from it's comrades sits solely in the smallest of dining rooms. I gave up space for a chance at meaning.
In the end, meaning is what matters. If you can't reach out to someone, then you're a failure. I've failed twice. I couldn't grip the right people with the right message. My first attempt was of a young boy, fishing alone. He caught his first fish, but it was too small. Small enough that not releasing it would be foul play on your end; the boy didn't release it. Instead, he cast his line again, saving his number one.
My second painting followed a similar suit, with a child at the forefront. Neither faired well enough to even make top 3. This next painting will succeed. I don't know yet what it will be about. I don't know when it will be released.
Seated on that lonely chair. Sweat drips of frustration, and a lack of bill payment. The wood floor has faded with grime. The ceiling is splattered with paint from many swipes of a brush. The walls are off-white, dulled with finger-prints and smoke. The two windows are cracked, broken by anger. Dressers and closets lay empty; every cloth crumpled upon the ground.
My life is disgusting. It's ugly, it's rancid, it's unbearable, but it's for my craft. Without this, where would my inspiration be? My motivation. Give me this abode over any other and I shall thank you with great joy, for you've flourished a fire inside me. It takes sacrifice. I know; because I've sacrificed.
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