starving artist

Silence.

The decrepit room slouched, with obvious bad posture. Its face bulged downward, weighted like a heavy conscience, and its skin was that of snow angels. The box’s corners flaked, dry skin waiting to be itched, itching to be uncovered. Its bottom pulsated from the smooth granite.

Warmth was only found in the darkness, lightly sobbing and confused. He lay in a broken pile, bits and pieces stitched together. His flesh was serrated with the insults of a past life, a wasted time.

This was true punishment. This was pain.

An excuse for a man twitched slightly, jolted awake by the feeling that someone was watching his every move, like when one’s by his or herself and he or she knows that’s the way it is, but yet, those eyes can be felt on the back on the neck. It wasn’t long until consciousness to his surroundings set in.

He felt the chilly floor, even and level. It was so much unlike him. His hands wandered to the molting creature also, feeling the shedding. His eyes were of no use. He was left blinded to surroundings, but little did he know he could see.

Tungsten waves showered, bouncing off the pasty place.

The man’s eyes were reluctant to open. Pureness seared the retinas, and he was truly unable to view anything at all. Wall, roof and floor shot into his pupils at once.

Hesitantly, colour mixed into this blankness. Hues of cyan, magenta, and yellow layered themselves on top each other. Ribbons traced the outlines of the photographic memory. They began to form shapes, people of the past; each with a story to tell.

Mangos and cherries ripened upon the left wall, plump with youth. The fruit dripped of excessive sweet upon the right, dancing upon his tongue. Composted insides rot the farthest of the canvas. Premeditative produce permeated his nostrils. The final was of soil and silence, a loud future.

Weeping, the man dug himself into the floor. Sniffling in shame for the things he had done, he took the fetal position. The walls continued to play. In rage, he jumped to his feet and tore down the flaking paint, ripping away the lead. Handful after handful, he consumed the chips, satisfying his true colours. It was no use though. The surroundings were permanent. The movie was constant. He could not escape the fate. It was his turn to digest;

                            his light went out.