Life of the Artist

My father told me once, "There will always be another person.” This sole piece of advice passed down from generation to generation is a flawed symbol. No one truly knows if you will live for the next person you love. No one can tell you what will happen. “You’re an artist, paint your scene. Make it pretty, so all the world can admire it.” This is what the ideal artist hears every day, but every artist is different. Just the same as every person is different. We are all artists in our own way.

The artist doesn’t paint for the world, he paints for himself. He has a tortured mind. Papers spread across his tables. Sketches bouncing half out of his head. A cup of tea with food coloring in it, because it relaxes his feeling of inadequacy. The artist gazes into the rain not for inspiration but because he can appreciate the agony it brings him. His heart is small. He wears it so everyone can see, so everyone can have a piece. He has a smile that makes you feel as though you can achieve your dreams. He has given up on his. All he knows now is what he remembers.

The first kiss. You two were on the couch, laughing about something on the TV. He stopped to look at you, to take you in. He admired the way your smile was slightly crooked, and the darling crows feet that appeared around your eyes. The overwhelming feeling of comfort you gave him, the feeling of trust. He leaned in, your lips touched. He closed his eyes with a sudden calmness. He felt your breath fanning across his face. Both of you waited for the other to make a move. You did.

You created the kiss that he loved and regrets. The kiss that got him infatuated with your every move. You became his muse, his canvas. Now his skin is his canvas and it’s filled with scars. He remembers the long nights he stayed up with you. He remembers the midnight dances, the singing in pajamas. He remembers the last kiss and the goodbye.

He remembers giving so much of himself and getting nothing in return.

The shattered mirror. The tapestry with punctures. Your cold, wet, tear-stained face losing all hope in him. He kissed you again as you were going. You didn’t kiss back, he was left with a stoic feeling of his lips on yours. It was void of emotion. Empty. Like no one ever cared.

He cared.

You left.

He tried putting his feelings on his canvas, but he left it blank. That somehow was exactly how he felt.

Nothing, nothing at all.

He now watches the rain, because it reminds him of your tears. His heart is small, he gives it to everyone he meets because he just wants to be loved back. His smile believes in you because he’s given up on his dream. He’s no longer an artist, because what is an artist without his muse? What is a writer without their story? What is the next one if you were the final one? What is life, without feeling? It’s all a story. One that needs to be told. One with shattered dreams and holy nightmares. One where you are the main character and you decide their fate. In other stories, you are the antagonist, the rat in the mud. In yours, you are the hero or whomever you believe you are. Everyone’s story has a purpose and significance to whom they are. Now I’ll ask you, do you want to hear my mind?