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Nothing |
| Written by Steven | |
| Tuesday, 15 April 2008 | |
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Share it:      I want to be an artist, someone with talent in a particular way. I hear a song, the beautiful melody playing all around me, entranced by the meaningful lyrics from the soul of the singer, and think maybe. Sitting down with pencil in hand, I slowly write an unproductive attempt at a lyric. After so long the struggle becomes useless, because music does not live with me as it does for others. A painting sits comfortably on the wall, a manifestation of the beauty the painter once saw, as for me it stands as inspiration to create what I see. Idea and canvas in front of me, I work furiously to put down what I envision. A swirl of colors, beautiful at first, slowly applied to the thick canvas. Forests of trees with dark clouds above, only small lines of light coming through, comes to life before my eyes. Suddenly I step back from my task, and see only a mess of colors. No definition, no technique, and certainly no talent are the only things the canvas will ever say. The simple drawing lies ahead, a small framed woman holding her baby close, yet emotion has never spoke so loudly to me. Light to dark, the shading defines the world around the woman, while perfectly placed lines make up her pristine figure and her fragile baby. Pencil and paper ready, the lead grates onto the paper, leaving a trail of shape behind it. A simple man stands on the shore of a lonely beach, watching the horizon as night slowly approaches. Scratches back and forth on the paper gave a semblance of depth, while heavy and light lines gave definition to the characters. Pulling away to view what I had done, I saw only smears of unproportional and sloppy pieces. The man looked alien, the shores insufficient, the sand flat, and the paper would now fall aimlessly to the floor. Entranced, I could only read further as the story would not let go of my attention. Simple words had invoked a complete world, with real characters and powerful lore. That was what I truly wanted, a hold on the power of words soaked in the spirit of a person’s imagination. The clicking of keys lasted throughout a night, giving life to lush scenes and daring action, while displaying the powerful emotions that each character went through. It was almost effortlessly really, of course before it was read once more for clarity. There was none, nothing was distinguishable from one paragraph to the other, a story lost in itself. Characters had nothing of reality born in them, and were instead lifeless dolls walking through a simply written piece of trash. My spirit gave no life to words or any other representation really. What was it that I really wanted? Something real, I yearned for something that was drenched by the mediocre world around me. Would it be too hard to feel like something I did was worthwhile? Gave something to the world or people around me? I guess so, so now I drench this canvas in blood, watching as it drips onto the papers beneath it, as the sound of flowing blood drowns out the music. If I had nothing, then nothing would exist. Copyright 2008 Steven |
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| Last Updated ( Wednesday, 16 April 2008 ) |
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