There is an illuminated canvas on the wall. There is nothing above it. There is nothing beside it. There is nothing below it. There is just the canvas of greenish-blue, slick and gleaming from paint not-yet dried. You walk towards it, the soft padding of your feet echoing cavernously(more) around you, until you can see more than just a blur of colors. The scene depicted is of a figure lying face down in an emerald sea, as the vibrant cyan sky lounges carelessly overhead. Now that you're close, you can see that only the sea has yet to dry - as close as you are, your eyes can trail a thick drop as it slowly descends to the edge of the canvas.
It drips. Ever. So. Slowly. Until it finally rolls off the edge and onto the floor. Far too soon there is a puddle of green, and you step back. After another step the puddle extends to the curve of your toes, and by the time you turn and launch into a full-out sprint there's a thin layer of green paint on the floor.(less)
The walls shone a haunting white. Blank, just like your expression. They will forever remind me.
We commonly parallel green with jealousy... green eyed monster. And, my dear, you were a beast.
Like a artist jacked up on some intense drug, you splattered my worl(more)d with your emerald intent, covering up the colors I tried to love with myself.
With little control of yourself but in perfect control of me, I wriggled in your grasp as you painted coat after coat of the agony.
I tried to bleed you out with little avail, now it's just the wait game for it all to dry up, until I can brush over a new beginning of the mess you left with such indignation, Agamemnon would have been humbled.
Truth is the color of your eyes haunt my hope, the shade of sea foam they could so lovingly be before they turned to the dark, crashing seas, leaving me ship wrecked and tore alone, washed up like some sex crime victim, haggard.
But there is always another sunrise to be had, but I seemed to have misplaced my brush.
It had been approximately four days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes since I last saw her wrinkled smile. The one with the chipped incisor and the lopsided lips. The smile that I used to run to when I was running from everything. It hadn't sunk it yet, if you(more) hadn't noticed.
My mother was leaning against the door frame, sucking down carcinogens and nicotine when I reached the garage. She looked at me like she would look at a day old donut in the gas station. This is how she always looked at me.
Nanny didn't have a will; she couldn't be bothered with things like that. Even though my mother fought her tooth and nail on every subject from the Bears' defense to how much nutmeg to use in apple pie, the house was left to her.
And here she was, smoking in it, just to spite her.
"C'mon, let's get started." She coughed at me. Nanny's garage was filled to the gills with all of her past hobbies. There were her cameras from when she opened her business, ukeleles from her stint with that Hawaiian, and canvasses. This was the only hobby that stuck. Nearly every memory I had of her, Nanny had a paintbrush in hand, or a smock on. I started digging through the canvasses, which seemed to be in no particular order. Still lifes, abstracts, and landscapes; Nanny didn't really have rules regarding art besides one: always finish. She might have been a little flighty, but she was definitely disciplined.
Just then, my breath hitched. An unfinished landscape, about halfway through the stack. Everyone had laughed when I said I saw some olive colored paint smudged behind her ear. I grabbed the last painting and stuffed it in my hatchback. This one was mine.(less)
It's stupid that humans think we as a race mean anything, and especially stupid that most of us think we mean more (to whom or what, I don't know) than other animals. We throw them onto a cruel assembly line without mercy or dignity as if they were lower(more) than dirt, or if we had something personal against them. We're nothing more than products of nuclear reactions, which are nothing more than products of the basic laws that govern our universe's physics. Same thing goes for the ground we walk on, the food we eat, the air we breathe, and everything we've ever known or even heard of in our entire lives. We aren't exceptional and no one is.
All that should just go to show that being a dick, being selfish, being inconsiderate is just a waste of goddamn time. We have ONE life. ONE. Think about that. You'll never EVER have another childhood, another adolescence, anything. The past is the past, so you better hope you spent it doing something fulfilling. To me, sitting at home studying isn't fulfilling by any stretch of the definition. Neither is getting caught up in dumb, superficial competitions or trying to fit in. Just be yourself and your surroundings will eventually come to reflect who you are, and then you'll find at least some degree of happiness. I say that not because it's particularly relevant to the first paragraph, but because (as John Lennon's "Imagine" goes) once we've accepted that this life and this world is all we have, we really start to appreciate what it is FOR what it is. It's surprisingly easy to come to terms with a godless, pointless existence. In fact, I'd say I'm a happier man for it.(less)
I did it on the Thursday night of a four day weekend. No one knew I had an extra copy of the office keys from that one day last year when they made me open up early. All it took was moss from some rocks in the park, two(more) cups of milk, a blender, and a paint brush.
I waited in the garage until 3am when the cleaners had left in their big yellow vans. I quickly went from floor to floor in the building, painting on every drab white wall with the green moss paint. In some places I wrote words or phrases that had special meaning to me; “Resist,” “This is not life,” “You are better than this,” “Kilroy was here.” In other places I just drew figure eights or covered the ceiling in flowers and vines.
When I left for home as Friday’s sun rose over the horizon I prayed that four days would be enough for the paint to grow into new life.
On Tuesday the managers were livid. They talked about how they were going to bring private investigators in to find whoever had placed all the moss that was growing on the walls and ceilings. It was a vain threat but it made them puff out their chests and make like they had control.
The cleaning service couldn’t bring enough people or equipment in until the weekend and the managers were too cheap to spend cash on the people who could get rid of it sooner. So for four days my drab and soul crushing office was instead a vibrant moss covered jungle of life. It brought a little bit of joy in an otherwise dreary place
They never caught me but even if they did it would have been worth it.
Not being Irish I have one gallon can of green paint. So every year on Saint Patriarch Day I paint the stand that holds up my mail box green. Where my home is, is not exactly in an Irish neighborhood, so when I se a neighbor coming over(more) that
rarely comes over I know he's coming over to ask . "Why the green paint". I fill up a glass with green beer and go to the door. He comes up to the door looks at the mail box and the green beer, and says "Never mind" !(less)