||Writ||I Am A Painter
Writing is a bit of a side pleasure of mine, though I never really do outside of rps and things like that lol
But recently I tried and it has taking me exactly 2 days to finish. Half because I didn't even know where to start and the other half was because I would procrastinate and do other things while writing. I get impatient with myself a lot of the time when I do things like this because it seems like a lot of unnecessary dragging out of unimportant things, or at least I think so, but I tried this time. I don't think I succeeded out of the habit, though lol. I was really bored and needed something to do and drawing wasn't exactly doing it. Plus IDK WHY BUT I THINK UP THESE INTRICATE PHRASES IN MY HEAD AND I AM LIKE OMG WHY CAN'T IJUST WRITE THIS DOWN AND SOUND COOL MUST PUT A STORY TO IT.
It'sa short story, only about 4 pages in Word, but I hope you guys enjoy it ; m ; It's been a really long time since I've written anything at all. The characters aren't anyone in particular and the concept is general and broad.
Idk lol sobs
I am a painter. A creator of worlds with vast, elaborate stories that do not extend past a page. My canvas is literature written by the viewer’s imagination and ideological expanse. I am neither prideful of my work, nor ashamed. My days are rather dreary and uneventful, a monotony only severed should I decide to step outside, for once. In my quiet grotto set between much larger, more elaborate and intricate establishments that dwarf it in any way a person could imagine, I sit and paint. The only reminders that I am alive on this earth being the soft pitter-patter of rain against the window and the occasional shift of the subjects, or subjects I should say-a family of three with a rather fidgety third. A child, as expected- that I have been painting.
Portraits are a favorite of this grey town. Of the people. To see themselves rendered in a fashion that only an artist could capture with a traditional medium was apparently exciting. I, myself, stand in mirrors, mine or not, no longer than five seconds. But these people had reason. They were beautiful. And I, the quiet painter, meagerly channeled this beauty into my paints and onto my canvas. With these beautiful portraits so elegantly painted, practically cradling the very essence of the subject in its fibers, I was never satisfied, could not be satisfied. The arrogance of these portraits that afforded me the meager pay to keep the roof from leaking and subjecting to the endless rain made me sick.
The people, I could not stand for more than the few hours that I sat etching every detail, mole, lash, wrinkle. And I felt…I felt, at one point, that I should be a madman that I was disgusted with them, but it was not them to blame for their intolerable pride, but those before them and them before those and so on and so forth. From their lack of humility and modesty seemed to radiate greed and intolerance for the much less fortunate. Greed, maybe, was the much more adamant essence that partook in my psychological nausea.
I’ve seen some things on those rare occasions that I step out into the grey town. The damp air would kiss my pallid cheeks with a sorrowful chill and tint them a playful pink that contradicted my sullen, tired face. Maybe that is why the bread maker stops me to chat, or why the perfume lady must have my opinion on her newest witches brew scent. Or maybe they felt sorry for me. My eyes sometimes heavy with fatigue brought on by a pattern of insomnia-I paint my worlds during those times-or my incessant, perceptively pathetic solitude. But I would speak, talk, chat, though never would the corners of my mouth turn upward at their silly jokes and suggestive mutters. You could say that I was, an emotional mute in their presence. I could not forgive and forget the grimness of this world that they laughed and frolicked so decisively blind to. But who could blame them?
My lack of sentimentality and general vague personal interest in their indulgences must have offended them. It was alright though, that they might have judged me behind their jolly eyes and probably forceful smile. I never left my grotto often. They would forget as the weeks would pass until they saw me again.
I could have forgiven the grey town, I think. Possibly.
If it had not been for that orphanage.
I happened to come by it on a peculiarly rainless day-though it had been substituted for a mist that teased my chestnut tresses into coils. The building was a large one, tall, and dreary. Its outer brick walls seemed to bleed the dampness from the weather and everything else seemed…bleak. The colors of stained windows had faded, some artworks etched into the glass even disappeared, eroded with age like the gargoyles that sat on their guardian pillars at each side of the cobblestone steps. Or maybe they were griffins. It was hard to tell. But the place resembled a cathedral in its own grimly commanding way. But I had only stopped at the steps to gaze up at this place for a moment, capture the intricacies carved and bludgeoned into it by weather, age, and possible vandalism. To me, this building was handsome. It was a glorious blister on the face of this exquisite grey town. The trash bin of its rejects. Where the dumb, ineffectual, and ugly are dumped without much of a chance, save if some bleeding heart with enough pity handed over a signature and paid a nice little fee.
Selling the souls of the damned.
I am a painter. I am intrigued by the deformities and deformed of the world. My personal paintings, my worlds, consist of gruesome, unsettling things that I keep locked away in my basement for my own personal viewing. I find the offsetting and queer to be delighting, delightful, desirable. My fantasies and creations, macabre and morbid to the conservatives who shun their fears of unfathomable horrors of the otherworldly behind the veil of maturity.
This place was a glorious beckoning of inspiration to my mind. So much so that my eyes just might have been damp from incomprehensible glee. But then they fell on something quite strange in such a decadent place. The soft, round face of a cherub peering out at the grey town in a solemn curiosity. Pale, doe eyes lax, expression lulled by whatever frivolities of the world outside that their innocent mind came up with. Their skin was porcelain adorned with ebony locks that fell down their shoulders in lush ringlets and whorls and waves almost vastly oceanic.
What was a gem like they doing in the presence of the tumor and sickness riddled? The cockeyed and cumbersome? What could the child possibly have done, been born with, been cursed with to end up in such a miserable place? Were they there to taunt the other’s with wicked arrogance like those outside of the walls of that hideous orphanage? My mind began to fog with questions and a suddenly, almost criminal abhorrence for this child, when I saw it.
Their face turned to mine, suddenly snapped from their pleasurable daydream. By their expression, a somewhat surprised one, I thought that maybe my thoughts had become audible and nearly chastised myself for actually letting my jaundice slip to the ear. But that jaundice became a remorseful wonder. This child’s face had been severely scared from the corner of their lip up, across the eye, rendering it a cloudy, useless orb, and along the throat as if some carver felt flesh an applicable practicing canvas. The wounds, long since what tragic incident occurred, bubbled and pinched the skin together with pink tissue. There was no telling how low and far and much the scars expanded over ashen skin beneath their clothes.
My hands quivered and I noticed a glaze of sweat managed to coat my palms. In just moments, I had gone from enraged to enthralled with this child and now coveted their very essence. Standing there, stiff as a pole, I did not break my gaze, though something inside of me ached to. A feeling, or plethora of feelings, foreign to me that I might have hushed away behind a veil of maturity. I wanted this child in my possession to coddle to the core. I wanted to adore those atrocious brands, make them a blessing instead of a curse and ravage the already disharmonized waves of black hair with my knobby fingers. I wanted to keep the child in my grotto, fancy it and make it a home so enviable, that they would never want to leave. And I would never have, let, allow them to leave into the grey town where the people valued beauty over their own flesh and blood. This was my treasure of another man’s trash. I would make that child my one and only subject, my muse, my inspiration, the immortal, life-bringing touch to my now incomparable, dissatisfying, bland, abominable canvases.
I wanted them, and I wanted them only. Large eyes, the child’s somber, half blind curiosity chimed my name in such innocent seduction, and I thought I had stumbled up the steps for a moment. But with a blink of an eye, I was brought back from my inquisitive stupor and again staring back at this child. They obviously longed for a home. My thoughts seemed reality. I pondered the time, finally breaking my gaze to fumble and fish my pocketwatch out of my coat pocket with sweaty hands. It was a feeble and fruitless action-and possible excuse to no longer stare at the eyes that stared at me in a lure of surreal contemplation-as I would never have known how long I had been standing in that spot without knowing at what time I arrived in the first place. With a frown, I returned the watch to its pocket and brushed strands of brown hair that tickled my cheek behind my ear.
Without hesitation, I turned on my heels and walked home.
For a period of time, I was with odds with my paintings. I became quite disheveled, each personal canvas after my little outing never amounting up to the exquisiteness of the scarred boy. I began to abhor my customers more openly and gradually they decreased in number. Alternatively, my little grotto became a house as things became tidy. Cracked mirrors were replaced and cobwebs were swept away. I wasn’t entirely sure who this man was that would spend time buying new furniture and various other homely trinkets. This man who found every canvas a provocation should they not contain the subject that his fanatical thoughts pined for. The very crevices of his mind ached for this muse and would not let his hands translate the few ideas he had properly in his trade. Before he knew it, the grotto had become a warm place fit for a human being rather than a person, a taciturn recluse who existed just to exist with unspoken ideologies and reserved sentiment.
How much time had passed, I’m not sure. I never know how much time had passed unless I knew the time to begin with and could never know. Estimation was an inaccuracy that I did not trust myself with outside of painting. But as soon as I had completed my home, I grabbed my coat and headed out into the town to the orphanage. The sun was out that day.
But recently I tried and it has taking me exactly 2 days to finish. Half because I didn't even know where to start and the other half was because I would procrastinate and do other things while writing. I get impatient with myself a lot of the time when I do things like this because it seems like a lot of unnecessary dragging out of unimportant things, or at least I think so, but I tried this time. I don't think I succeeded out of the habit, though lol. I was really bored and needed something to do and drawing wasn't exactly doing it. Plus IDK WHY BUT I THINK UP THESE INTRICATE PHRASES IN MY HEAD AND I AM LIKE OMG WHY CAN'T IJUST WRITE THIS DOWN AND SOUND COOL MUST PUT A STORY TO IT.
It'sa short story, only about 4 pages in Word, but I hope you guys enjoy it ; m ; It's been a really long time since I've written anything at all. The characters aren't anyone in particular and the concept is general and broad.
Idk lol sobs
I am a painter. A creator of worlds with vast, elaborate stories that do not extend past a page. My canvas is literature written by the viewer’s imagination and ideological expanse. I am neither prideful of my work, nor ashamed. My days are rather dreary and uneventful, a monotony only severed should I decide to step outside, for once. In my quiet grotto set between much larger, more elaborate and intricate establishments that dwarf it in any way a person could imagine, I sit and paint. The only reminders that I am alive on this earth being the soft pitter-patter of rain against the window and the occasional shift of the subjects, or subjects I should say-a family of three with a rather fidgety third. A child, as expected- that I have been painting.
Portraits are a favorite of this grey town. Of the people. To see themselves rendered in a fashion that only an artist could capture with a traditional medium was apparently exciting. I, myself, stand in mirrors, mine or not, no longer than five seconds. But these people had reason. They were beautiful. And I, the quiet painter, meagerly channeled this beauty into my paints and onto my canvas. With these beautiful portraits so elegantly painted, practically cradling the very essence of the subject in its fibers, I was never satisfied, could not be satisfied. The arrogance of these portraits that afforded me the meager pay to keep the roof from leaking and subjecting to the endless rain made me sick.
The people, I could not stand for more than the few hours that I sat etching every detail, mole, lash, wrinkle. And I felt…I felt, at one point, that I should be a madman that I was disgusted with them, but it was not them to blame for their intolerable pride, but those before them and them before those and so on and so forth. From their lack of humility and modesty seemed to radiate greed and intolerance for the much less fortunate. Greed, maybe, was the much more adamant essence that partook in my psychological nausea.
I’ve seen some things on those rare occasions that I step out into the grey town. The damp air would kiss my pallid cheeks with a sorrowful chill and tint them a playful pink that contradicted my sullen, tired face. Maybe that is why the bread maker stops me to chat, or why the perfume lady must have my opinion on her newest witches brew scent. Or maybe they felt sorry for me. My eyes sometimes heavy with fatigue brought on by a pattern of insomnia-I paint my worlds during those times-or my incessant, perceptively pathetic solitude. But I would speak, talk, chat, though never would the corners of my mouth turn upward at their silly jokes and suggestive mutters. You could say that I was, an emotional mute in their presence. I could not forgive and forget the grimness of this world that they laughed and frolicked so decisively blind to. But who could blame them?
My lack of sentimentality and general vague personal interest in their indulgences must have offended them. It was alright though, that they might have judged me behind their jolly eyes and probably forceful smile. I never left my grotto often. They would forget as the weeks would pass until they saw me again.
I could have forgiven the grey town, I think. Possibly.
If it had not been for that orphanage.
I happened to come by it on a peculiarly rainless day-though it had been substituted for a mist that teased my chestnut tresses into coils. The building was a large one, tall, and dreary. Its outer brick walls seemed to bleed the dampness from the weather and everything else seemed…bleak. The colors of stained windows had faded, some artworks etched into the glass even disappeared, eroded with age like the gargoyles that sat on their guardian pillars at each side of the cobblestone steps. Or maybe they were griffins. It was hard to tell. But the place resembled a cathedral in its own grimly commanding way. But I had only stopped at the steps to gaze up at this place for a moment, capture the intricacies carved and bludgeoned into it by weather, age, and possible vandalism. To me, this building was handsome. It was a glorious blister on the face of this exquisite grey town. The trash bin of its rejects. Where the dumb, ineffectual, and ugly are dumped without much of a chance, save if some bleeding heart with enough pity handed over a signature and paid a nice little fee.
Selling the souls of the damned.
I am a painter. I am intrigued by the deformities and deformed of the world. My personal paintings, my worlds, consist of gruesome, unsettling things that I keep locked away in my basement for my own personal viewing. I find the offsetting and queer to be delighting, delightful, desirable. My fantasies and creations, macabre and morbid to the conservatives who shun their fears of unfathomable horrors of the otherworldly behind the veil of maturity.
This place was a glorious beckoning of inspiration to my mind. So much so that my eyes just might have been damp from incomprehensible glee. But then they fell on something quite strange in such a decadent place. The soft, round face of a cherub peering out at the grey town in a solemn curiosity. Pale, doe eyes lax, expression lulled by whatever frivolities of the world outside that their innocent mind came up with. Their skin was porcelain adorned with ebony locks that fell down their shoulders in lush ringlets and whorls and waves almost vastly oceanic.
What was a gem like they doing in the presence of the tumor and sickness riddled? The cockeyed and cumbersome? What could the child possibly have done, been born with, been cursed with to end up in such a miserable place? Were they there to taunt the other’s with wicked arrogance like those outside of the walls of that hideous orphanage? My mind began to fog with questions and a suddenly, almost criminal abhorrence for this child, when I saw it.
Their face turned to mine, suddenly snapped from their pleasurable daydream. By their expression, a somewhat surprised one, I thought that maybe my thoughts had become audible and nearly chastised myself for actually letting my jaundice slip to the ear. But that jaundice became a remorseful wonder. This child’s face had been severely scared from the corner of their lip up, across the eye, rendering it a cloudy, useless orb, and along the throat as if some carver felt flesh an applicable practicing canvas. The wounds, long since what tragic incident occurred, bubbled and pinched the skin together with pink tissue. There was no telling how low and far and much the scars expanded over ashen skin beneath their clothes.
My hands quivered and I noticed a glaze of sweat managed to coat my palms. In just moments, I had gone from enraged to enthralled with this child and now coveted their very essence. Standing there, stiff as a pole, I did not break my gaze, though something inside of me ached to. A feeling, or plethora of feelings, foreign to me that I might have hushed away behind a veil of maturity. I wanted this child in my possession to coddle to the core. I wanted to adore those atrocious brands, make them a blessing instead of a curse and ravage the already disharmonized waves of black hair with my knobby fingers. I wanted to keep the child in my grotto, fancy it and make it a home so enviable, that they would never want to leave. And I would never have, let, allow them to leave into the grey town where the people valued beauty over their own flesh and blood. This was my treasure of another man’s trash. I would make that child my one and only subject, my muse, my inspiration, the immortal, life-bringing touch to my now incomparable, dissatisfying, bland, abominable canvases.
I wanted them, and I wanted them only. Large eyes, the child’s somber, half blind curiosity chimed my name in such innocent seduction, and I thought I had stumbled up the steps for a moment. But with a blink of an eye, I was brought back from my inquisitive stupor and again staring back at this child. They obviously longed for a home. My thoughts seemed reality. I pondered the time, finally breaking my gaze to fumble and fish my pocketwatch out of my coat pocket with sweaty hands. It was a feeble and fruitless action-and possible excuse to no longer stare at the eyes that stared at me in a lure of surreal contemplation-as I would never have known how long I had been standing in that spot without knowing at what time I arrived in the first place. With a frown, I returned the watch to its pocket and brushed strands of brown hair that tickled my cheek behind my ear.
Without hesitation, I turned on my heels and walked home.
For a period of time, I was with odds with my paintings. I became quite disheveled, each personal canvas after my little outing never amounting up to the exquisiteness of the scarred boy. I began to abhor my customers more openly and gradually they decreased in number. Alternatively, my little grotto became a house as things became tidy. Cracked mirrors were replaced and cobwebs were swept away. I wasn’t entirely sure who this man was that would spend time buying new furniture and various other homely trinkets. This man who found every canvas a provocation should they not contain the subject that his fanatical thoughts pined for. The very crevices of his mind ached for this muse and would not let his hands translate the few ideas he had properly in his trade. Before he knew it, the grotto had become a warm place fit for a human being rather than a person, a taciturn recluse who existed just to exist with unspoken ideologies and reserved sentiment.
How much time had passed, I’m not sure. I never know how much time had passed unless I knew the time to begin with and could never know. Estimation was an inaccuracy that I did not trust myself with outside of painting. But as soon as I had completed my home, I grabbed my coat and headed out into the town to the orphanage. The sun was out that day.