Art was no mean feat but it was subjective and at least he could portray his demons straight onto the canvas instead of the bottle. But the demon drink was too tempting to resist on lonely nights such as tonight. An empty feeling trembled in his stomach, not one of hunger he thought and then laughed to himself. One more forging of forgotten moments and missed opportunities. Letting his life drift on and by without laying down solid foundations and memories of happy times and what could have been, a life lived to the fullest.
He lit up another cigarette and poured some wine, whiskey, bourbon it was all the same when nursing his broken heart and soul. Yet he couldn't let go of her image. The tall prepossessing demeanour she exuded. The steamy sexy nights they spent together lingered in his mind, in his paintings and how love was fleeting. Picking up a brush he tried to create, recreate another masterpiece. In his mind they were all his best work, Sadness always brought out the most ardent work of the religious and devoted artist. Red, yellow, crimson, topaz hues reverberated onto the canvas as the candles blew in the wind. There was a noise: a slight echo of manifesting laughter which caught his ear. Putting it down to his imagination, it was an old building and his drunken mind was probably playing cruel tricks as it always did.
Yesterday was gone, a new day sprung like the leaking tap he could hear. The dripping and the noise was momentous and thundering like the roar of a lion and he woke from the slumber he needed. He'd stumbled into a deep stupor more like and yet even this appeared futile. Once again he heard more noises, soft knocking on the wall behind him and he turned around. It stopped as suddenly as it began. He looked at his work and it was shocking, shocking that it was completed. He had no idea when he finished but he couldn't recall . His mind was far from clear and devoid of such thoughts.
The completed masterpiece looked abstract but inside he could see waves of emotion. A face, was it a face, a shadow coming back to haunt him peering out from beneath the mirage of colours. Radiating depth and colourful rendition of a golden symphony. Something stirred in him again and he couldn't place the thoughts. Where was all this coming from...he shuddered to think of the complex implications of there actually being something supernatural going on. Something guiding him to eerily finish his creations. Perhaps he needed paranormal intervention. Yet he paused for sane thought and sneered at the possibility. Snarkily smirking at his stupidity.
Still he thought it was a Godsend. He needed more work as money was fast running out and blowing it all on her was typical behaviour on his part. The gallery was exhibiting more work next month and he was in dire need of inspiration. He felt a cold breath on the nape of his sweaty neck. It remained for a moment; icy cold and gave him chills down his spine. Thinking back to her and how she blew in his ear and made him love her. Sultry seduction could work wonders for an author so why not for the sake of his art. Every breath, every motion of their bodies sparked a resonance of movement from his brush, of throwing paint in tandem unison. Ending in a violent crescendo! He did everything for her but still it wasn't enough. If he had taken his love to greater heights and sang a serenade from the moon that wouldn't have been enough.
He felt cold again and shuddered; turning to see the paint moving with a life of its own, the brush flowed too and fro. He couldn't fathom the reality of what was before his eyes. He wasn't anywhere near it but the paint appeared to be covering the entire canvas and the smell of the oils became deep and mesmerizing. What was this madness unfolding before his unbelieving eyes. Some ghastly abhorrence. He didn't believe in ghosts or spirits except for the ones in his head. This was something wilder than his free flowing imagination. His mind must be coming undone. Unravelling like some deja vu moment, he swore he could have been here before. This point in time, his subconscious had tricked him so blindly before. That woman was real, not invisible.
She was his muse and he didn't realize the spirit of her was always here. Staying alive always in is work and the essence of his own being. The gallery was hers. But was taken from her in a cruelly twisted way along with her life essence and everything she was. He was destined to own it and to do her justice. He never found the mystery of her circumstances surrounding that fateful night; but he found his true calling through her. Her selfless nature and her being by his side always. People may call him mad but there was no denying his art had meaning, fortitude and an evocative beauty that wasn't a result of deception. It was honesty and a special spirituality. A purity that resonated throughout his inner core.
Muses came in all shapes and sizes. All forms. So why couldn't this immaculate spirit be his muse. Creating with him this divine eternity. For his art to be seen by millions and giving memorable inspiration to those who suffered for their art.
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