Woops
Okay so I totally fell asleep last night and forgot to write. Crap. But I wrote a super long (see: only slightly longer than previous) story this time. I'm not sure whether to be proud of it, confused by it or disturbed by it though. Anyway, my prompt today was to start a story with the words, "the clock winked". Strange eh? Any way here it is:
The clock winked. I swear it did, I’m not crazy. The numbers, all those zero’s they melted into eyes, and they winked. Shit, never mind I am crazy. I blink a few times, rub my eyes and peer at the winking clock again. Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s just a clock.
The numbers flip and suddenly I actually bother to pay attention to them. Holy Jesus, no wonder I’m seeing things, it’s four o’clock in the morning and I’ve been working on this damn painting all night. Not to mention the fact that I didn’t even sleep last night at all. Don’t judge me, I sleep, I sleep too much normally, this painting, I just needed to get it on canvas.
It’s almost finished.
Painting is not my job, it’s my life. The smell of it the feel of it, there’s nothing I love more. My job is to write instruction manuals. Yah, it’s fucking boring. Means I don’t have to leave the house often though, just to mail stuff or pick up more paint. Okay, and sometimes food. Most of the time I’m too broke to buy much food though.
There are forty three canvases scattered around my apartment all covered in my paintings, none are hung up, few are even showing, but I know that they are there and that warms me, keeps me sane. I hope the landlord never comes for an inspection of my place though, he wouldn’t be happy with the paintings I’ve done on the walls those times when my budget was stretched too thin to buy any more canvas.
I push myself off the stool I’ve been sitting on for way too many hours and head to the bathroom. There I look in the mirror above the sink. Well, it’s kind of a mirror. I painted over it months ago, tired of looking at my plain old boring self. In the place of my reflection is a colourful self-portrait. It looks nothing like me.
The woman in the mirror, if you can call her that is made of colour. Blues and reds and greens, and yellows splashed liberally throughout her abstracted frame. She is everything I wish I was. I turn on the taps and shove my hands into the ice cold water, I can’t be bothered waiting for it to warm, and watch as a mosaic of colour drips from pale flesh swirling around porcelain, the water diluting the mish mash of colour until it is mostly gone, and leaves only the faintest trace of colour staining it.
I yawn, lack of sleep finally catching up with me and I barely make it too my bed before I fall asleep.
I dream in black and white.
I wake up screaming.
This is not an unusual occurrence for me. A world without colour I can hardly even bear to imagine waits for me in my dreams, haunts me, devours me.
I gulp down two cups of coffee, no cream no milk just spoon after spoon of sugar, before I make my way to the computer. I’m getting behind on work. Behind me, on the other side of the room, my painting waits, calls to me.
I only manage an hour of work before I’m back before my canvas.
This painting feels so important to me and I don’t yet even know what it is of. I’ve been working on it for days but I feel I’ve barely finished even the slightest part of it.
I look up at the clock suspiciously some tine later. It is not winking. It was definitely a delusion borne of exhaustion when I thought it had. It did however inform me that I had been painting for nearly six hours.
My stomach grumbles and I reluctantly set my paints aside and head to the kitchen adjoining my living room. I peer through the near empty fridge before closing the door and raiding the pantry. I find some soda crackers there and pull them out. I turn the teakettle on as well and steep some green tea. Coffee is for the mornings; my stomach can’t handle anything else when I first wake up.
I manage to eat most of the package of crackers before my stomach feels full. I eat so little these days that I am very glad that I covered up the mirror. It is bad enough washing myself in the shower and having to feel the bones of my ribs, my hips, sharp enough that they almost seem to pierce through my flesh.
I don’t own a TV, and the computer is only used for work, there is nothing else of interest on it to me. When I’m not painting or working, I’m not really doing much of anything.
I continue to work on the painting for the rest of the day and well into the night. I have a quick shower before bed only to sleep and repeat the process the next day, and the next.
The painting is too big for one canvas I had to conclude a few days ago and now three canvases lie in front of me, completing the painting that I just could not free myself of.
It is beautiful. It is everything, it is nothing and I feel free for the first time in my life.
I strip off my clothes; they are covered in paint, stiff with it and uncomfortable. It is the first time in my life I have ever felt uncomfortable being covered in paint. I head to the shower and turn the water to scalding hot. I scrub my skin until it burns, until all the paint washes down the drain and my skin is pink and naked.
I turn off the water and leave the bathroom without drying off. Water drips from my hair, slides down my back and my breasts.
I find myself back in the living room. Back with my painting. It is still everything. It is still nothing. I rush to my room and dig through my closet for something to wear, something without paint staining it. I find nothing. I’m strangely unbothered by this. Before completing this painting I hated my body, covered it up whenever I could. I don’t feel like covering up anymore.
I leave my apartment and enter the elevator.
It’s the afternoon; there should be someone in there. There isn’t and I’m not sure whether I’m grateful or not.
I get off at the very last floor and find the stairs that lead up to the roof.
My building isn’t very tall, not compared with some of the skyscrapers around us, but it’s high enough that looking at the ground is dizzying. The wind feels so good on my skin.
I think about my paintings, the ones strewn about my apartment, the ones I painted years ago that my mother burned, but mostly, I think about this one I have just completed.
I let the wind maneuver me, following its gentle guiding push. It leads me to the edge of the building and I don’t protest, it’s where I am meant to be. I let it push me over the edge and I think about my final painting.
It is everything.
It is nothing.
And I am free.
The clock winked. I swear it did, I’m not crazy. The numbers, all those zero’s they melted into eyes, and they winked. Shit, never mind I am crazy. I blink a few times, rub my eyes and peer at the winking clock again. Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s just a clock.
The numbers flip and suddenly I actually bother to pay attention to them. Holy Jesus, no wonder I’m seeing things, it’s four o’clock in the morning and I’ve been working on this damn painting all night. Not to mention the fact that I didn’t even sleep last night at all. Don’t judge me, I sleep, I sleep too much normally, this painting, I just needed to get it on canvas.
It’s almost finished.
Painting is not my job, it’s my life. The smell of it the feel of it, there’s nothing I love more. My job is to write instruction manuals. Yah, it’s fucking boring. Means I don’t have to leave the house often though, just to mail stuff or pick up more paint. Okay, and sometimes food. Most of the time I’m too broke to buy much food though.
There are forty three canvases scattered around my apartment all covered in my paintings, none are hung up, few are even showing, but I know that they are there and that warms me, keeps me sane. I hope the landlord never comes for an inspection of my place though, he wouldn’t be happy with the paintings I’ve done on the walls those times when my budget was stretched too thin to buy any more canvas.
I push myself off the stool I’ve been sitting on for way too many hours and head to the bathroom. There I look in the mirror above the sink. Well, it’s kind of a mirror. I painted over it months ago, tired of looking at my plain old boring self. In the place of my reflection is a colourful self-portrait. It looks nothing like me.
The woman in the mirror, if you can call her that is made of colour. Blues and reds and greens, and yellows splashed liberally throughout her abstracted frame. She is everything I wish I was. I turn on the taps and shove my hands into the ice cold water, I can’t be bothered waiting for it to warm, and watch as a mosaic of colour drips from pale flesh swirling around porcelain, the water diluting the mish mash of colour until it is mostly gone, and leaves only the faintest trace of colour staining it.
I yawn, lack of sleep finally catching up with me and I barely make it too my bed before I fall asleep.
I dream in black and white.
I wake up screaming.
This is not an unusual occurrence for me. A world without colour I can hardly even bear to imagine waits for me in my dreams, haunts me, devours me.
I gulp down two cups of coffee, no cream no milk just spoon after spoon of sugar, before I make my way to the computer. I’m getting behind on work. Behind me, on the other side of the room, my painting waits, calls to me.
I only manage an hour of work before I’m back before my canvas.
This painting feels so important to me and I don’t yet even know what it is of. I’ve been working on it for days but I feel I’ve barely finished even the slightest part of it.
I look up at the clock suspiciously some tine later. It is not winking. It was definitely a delusion borne of exhaustion when I thought it had. It did however inform me that I had been painting for nearly six hours.
My stomach grumbles and I reluctantly set my paints aside and head to the kitchen adjoining my living room. I peer through the near empty fridge before closing the door and raiding the pantry. I find some soda crackers there and pull them out. I turn the teakettle on as well and steep some green tea. Coffee is for the mornings; my stomach can’t handle anything else when I first wake up.
I manage to eat most of the package of crackers before my stomach feels full. I eat so little these days that I am very glad that I covered up the mirror. It is bad enough washing myself in the shower and having to feel the bones of my ribs, my hips, sharp enough that they almost seem to pierce through my flesh.
I don’t own a TV, and the computer is only used for work, there is nothing else of interest on it to me. When I’m not painting or working, I’m not really doing much of anything.
I continue to work on the painting for the rest of the day and well into the night. I have a quick shower before bed only to sleep and repeat the process the next day, and the next.
The painting is too big for one canvas I had to conclude a few days ago and now three canvases lie in front of me, completing the painting that I just could not free myself of.
It is beautiful. It is everything, it is nothing and I feel free for the first time in my life.
I strip off my clothes; they are covered in paint, stiff with it and uncomfortable. It is the first time in my life I have ever felt uncomfortable being covered in paint. I head to the shower and turn the water to scalding hot. I scrub my skin until it burns, until all the paint washes down the drain and my skin is pink and naked.
I turn off the water and leave the bathroom without drying off. Water drips from my hair, slides down my back and my breasts.
I find myself back in the living room. Back with my painting. It is still everything. It is still nothing. I rush to my room and dig through my closet for something to wear, something without paint staining it. I find nothing. I’m strangely unbothered by this. Before completing this painting I hated my body, covered it up whenever I could. I don’t feel like covering up anymore.
I leave my apartment and enter the elevator.
It’s the afternoon; there should be someone in there. There isn’t and I’m not sure whether I’m grateful or not.
I get off at the very last floor and find the stairs that lead up to the roof.
My building isn’t very tall, not compared with some of the skyscrapers around us, but it’s high enough that looking at the ground is dizzying. The wind feels so good on my skin.
I think about my paintings, the ones strewn about my apartment, the ones I painted years ago that my mother burned, but mostly, I think about this one I have just completed.
I let the wind maneuver me, following its gentle guiding push. It leads me to the edge of the building and I don’t protest, it’s where I am meant to be. I let it push me over the edge and I think about my final painting.
It is everything.
It is nothing.
And I am free.