The pen goes so straight. It follows the ruler. Its arm pushing to it, it doesn't need a rest. It doesn't need to ask for direction. Everything is so straight. Everything is defined, unnecessarily constraint. But, the pen knows where it goes. It looks to the ruler and knows. The pen, is black. Like coal.
The brush, doesn't care about the ruler. It simply doesn't. The lines are not for it. There is no target. Not visible at least. It looks to the lines on the paper, straight, strong, fundamental. Lonely. It is obvious that there cannot be only black and white on the paper. So, the brush starts running on the lines, not as straight as they are, not as strong, not initial. Yet, so much color splattered on the paper, so much variations, so much diversity, so much...
Emotion.
The paper is wet now. Once white as the snow, pure as a newborn, fresh as a teenager. First, it has been stretched to a cold wooden table. Pinned from all the corners, defenseless. It knows, all its frugality will be taken from it. First the ruler presses, then it feels the pen slides hardly on itself, straight, decisive, like the razorblade would slides on the wrists of a human sitting naked in its bathtub. As the movement of the pen continues, the paper soaks more and more in to the water in the bathtub, starting have crimson tone.
When the paper feels the pressure of the ruler disappear, the razorblade drops to the clean floor of the bath. The human leans back, while the slightly cooler surface of the bathtub welcomes its back, the pins holding the paper on the wooden plank releases it.
Free as a bird, the human floats on the steam reeking on the surface of the, now crimson, bath. Eyes closed, the happiness of the sharp pain, stinging its heart rather than the bleeding arms. It floats, floats on the sea of faces, it once knew, felt for maybe?
Loved?
The paper once again stretched on another plank, another angle, another surface. Fluffy towels soaking the blood running slowly form the scars, beautifully placed, perfectly executed, giving whole perspective, whole symmetry and the beautiful asymmetry. So perfectly balanced that will ensure that the rest will always be relentlessly unbalanced. So masterfully normal, that will ensure nothing can be normal.
Never will be normal.
And the brush starts to dance, on the paper, on the lines that shows where all should go. The black on white would dilute under the strokes of the brush blurring reality into a drunken surreality. The colors, with each stroke of any brush. All the emotion that made the human wrinkle on the floor of its bedroom, like the paper under the watermark, or the oil color...
Or the blood ran down the wrist.
Like the red, sexy, strong lipstick that he would wear, or the remarkable, wide yet perfectly tailored suit that she would wear. So lively, so bright, so happy lunacy that everyone else would stand up and applaud. Everyone that matters, everyone that the paper wants to impress, or just to blend in. Because it is what the lines directs to. Where the blood run down the wrist. Where the tears, run down. Where the brush slowly pushes the colors. All the colors. All the beautiful, bright, lively, warm colors. That converges all, all the...
... thoughts
... emotions
... reality
... surreality
... sanity
... love
... happy
... sad
... mad
... NO
NO
NO
NO
it cannot be
can it?
It all goes back to black.
When you have too much color.
The brush leaves the paper, so soft was the goodbye, so gentle. The morning light starts to shine through the window, making all the colors brighter. You can see all the furious brush touches on the arms, the scars that bled and dried on the paper, tears coming down from the vivid colors that tells how lovely is to live, how beautiful the next breath smells and how terrifying the next emotion that will be painted on the naked torso of the human. The chest is shaking with the excitement of loneliness that will cripple any strong human to death, while it's holding the wrinkled paper that holds the masterpiece of humanity. Life...
...
..
.
.
.
The brush, saved itself from the twitching hand, finally free, flying slowly towards the wooden ground. ''aaah finally" it says to the pen chilling in its destination "this time we had it right"
The brush hits the dark, raw, strong, beautiful wooden ground. Inhales peacefully, its stare locked on the twitching left foot, hanging from the impeccable white ceiling, which reminds it of the paper, that he spoiled with all its heart. It looks to itself to see the fingerprints of the artist...
the dreamer,
the lover
the feeler
the killer
the runner
the saver
the drunk
the sad
the musician
the paper
the pen
the sober
the wife
the husband
the kid
the grandmother
the mother
the gamer
the singer
the drummer
the father
the glass
the beer
the friend
the depressed
the manic
the son
the daughter
the human
the paper
the pen
the brush
the ruler
the narrator
the antagonist
the protagonist
... that had a smile on his face.
And a broken hourglass, that spits its sand.
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