Art

"What is he (dancer/artist) then to do with the rest of his life, knowing that he was no longer a glimpse of God? This is one of the most painful reconciliations to make in a creative life. But maybe it doesn't have to be so full of anguish if you never happened to believe in the first place that the most extraordinary aspects of your being came from you. But maybe if you just believe that they (talents) were on loan to you, from some unimaginable source for some exquisite portion of your life to be passed along when you're finished with somebody else."

- Elizabeth Gilbert's words from a TEDtalk: Your Elusive Creative Genius, and author of Eat Pray Love.

A very, very short story that I wrote at 6 AM because I could not sleep.

ART

It is the 21st century.
We are learning to see things in black and white alongside Brannan, Nashville and Valencia.
Emotional distance is sacred; We are our own heroes.
Apart from that, it's either subdued Willow or everybody's favourite, harsh-ass Inkwell.

It's the 21st century and stories are hard to tell.
She wishes she were born a hippie; she wants to live in a literary world of natural magic behind technicolored frames.
Focus.
Light spills out of the Stabilo colour pencil as she lasers the shit out of the empty page.
Ah. The smell of burning papyrus…
Desperate, the hippie gulps down every curlicue of smoke. This is when her eyes start rolling back into her head, like rabid, internal pinballs bouncing off every surface imaginable, not missing a single ding.

Woah.

She steadies her woozy self atop a weak stool, determined to prove her pinpricked focus to a blank wall in the smoke-filled room.
Grunting, the hippie gathers her black and white clothes, holds them against her abdomen, and with a monstrous heave, she does projectile like never before: every nook and cranny spewed in thick, tacky gunk and glittery saliva.
With flared nostrils the size of Russia, she stands over her masterpiece and yells, "Now THIS - this, is REAL ART!"

Across the street, her neighbour stirs, wonders what the heck that was, and goes back to sleep.

It's the 21st century and stories are hard to sell.
But fuck it.
Fuck fashion, fuck the press, and fuck this mediocre, never-gonna-make-it life.
The hippie wields her wooden lightsabre and holds it up like a trophy - a magnificent, shining middle finger to the black and white world.
So go grab your Faber Castells everybody, b'cos it's time to get high.