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30 December 2010 @ 02:29 pm
The Painter.  

I looked up. It was one of those nights where I had nowhere to go so I just picked a star in the sky and followed the streets I thought would get me closest to it, ignoring the fact that none of the streets were on hills and I wasn't climbing any higher. It didn't matter though because I wanted to be closer to the star, not in possession of it. Doing that would make it nothing more than a flimsy night light bought at the corner store, adjacent to my flat.

So like I did most nights when I couldn't sleep, I just followed. I figured the less I look at the ground, the less aware I was that I was pinned to it, like a piece of fabric safety pinned to the quilt. I hopefully wasn't being sewn into the earth any time soon. Anyways, if I could just avoid looking at the ground and try to make sure nothing got in my sights but the sky, then maybe I could convince myself that that was where I was.

That night, in order to see the moon, I had to round the corner of a crumbled brick building with dusty dirty windows that distorted my reflection when I glanced at them. The moon wasn't realy my thing. I generally preferred the simple stars but that night it was different, much different. Nobody ever believes my stories. They say my nighttime walks are just dreams and maybe this one was but there was a woman sitting on it. She had short, chocolate brown hair that was flipped out. A thin, white, lace dress hung from her ivory shoulders. Her ankles were crossed and hung over one of the edges, balancing her as she leaned into the sky, painting silver and gold stars. She was articulate, and graceful, and, well as much as I hate to say it, perfect. She wasn't worried about who was watching her or the lengths of her strokes. It was like she was illustrating something that had already been created and she was just filling in the truth.

People always tell you this junk about how you're looking into the past when you look at stars and whatever, all that scientific bull. And, I generally am in favor of knowledge of whatever kind in order to support belief but there she was and I didn't need any other sort of explanation. It just was. She was there painting stars, and then, as if it was part of the plan, she began painting something else.

It was like a kid had tipped his crayon box over into the sky, a crayon box that had been left out in the sun so it was just melted wax. She spread the melted wax with her fingers in all different directions. Blue violet and indigo. Fuschia and Sea Green. Turquoise and orchid and a hundred other colors. Stars burst from clouds and their golden sparks rained down through the atmostphere until it turned into a mild rain shower that brushed my face before falling to the sordid bricks in the sidewalk. It was like watching the creation of something. I wasn't sure what it was but it felt mythological and real and magical and true all at the same time so that I wasn't sure what I was looking or why. I just knew that I was enjoying what I saw and I knew I somehow was a part of it.

And then she did something I didn't expect. She began to paint with crimson and firebrick and forest green, grey and black. And something in me grew fearful. I'm not sure why. But for some reason when she ran palms of paint acrossed the newly fierce clouds I began to wonder what I had to do at home and an invisible leash tugged me back to my stoop. I'd just stepped under the awning when the clouds she'd painted, those clouds that had been so beautiful and graceful, ripped themselves open and a crimson flood of sparks fell toward the earth.


I was inspired by an image on one of the photography websites I check out. I wasn't sure where I was going with this and it was purely freewritten so if it makes no sense I apologize. I just had to write what has been in my head all day.

( Post a new comment )
xguhxxguhx on March 11th, 2011 12:15 am (UTC)
I thought
the "too-long" sentences were just fine, not too long at all.

I, too, thought this was fascinating.
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