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Rated: E · Preface · Other · #1098915
The beginning of a story.
The wispy clouds appear as if they were painted with Gods swift brush stroke. The sky is a canvas on which I will never be able to paint. Take that brush and repaint my life, because living it is a dark prospect. I try to paint my soul on paper, and express my heart through words; but so often it is not enough. Events that I thought happened, didn’t. My colorful mind must have made it up. And I do this to myself day after day. My fantasies are repeated and repeated in my mind, until I can no longer distinguish them from reality. My reality is therefore tainted. All I have for certain are words. Words and a paintbrush, and a sky on which I cannot paint. My clouds would be vast. Dark. There would be no false hope shining through. No sunlight in my paintings. I’m not certain as to what happened to me anymore. How much of it is the pure truth, and what percentage was filled in by myself. Never has a happy sentence escaped my lips with evil consequence. I don’t understand why I can’t just be free. Unleashed. I have just guilt and my lies. These lies that I have fed myself to stay in my blissful state of ignorance. I know what I did was wrong, but in my heart I feel no reason as to why I should be punished for it. I raise my arm up, a clean canvas. The first stroke is the most important, the most crucial in determining how the painting will end up. Beside me stands my masterpiece. My best work. For two months I’ve admired it, looked for just the perfect place to put it, and I’ve decided that the only place for it is right beside my new blank canvas. It’s a beautiful painting, and it says more then all of the words in a dictionary. It took me 4 months to paint it. It started out simple. And then, then it took form. Painting it was torture, and so I started with the clouds. That’s the first thing I remember looking at that day. The day that I ended up painting. I didn’t mean to. Its just what came out, the first brush stroke said it all. I was young, seventeen years old. I remembered how I wore my dark hair as I took my finest brush and began to draw the strands...
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