The last day of summer has arrived and I’m burdened by sorrow. I long for winter, the darkness, the cold, the deserted streets at night. The chaotic thoughts that permeate my mind will be my undoing. I imagine myself standing on a chair while putting my head through the noose. I don’t think I’ll ever finish this painting. As I’m adding, subtracting and multiplying colors the minutes stretch to hours. While using a palette knife I’m spreading the paint onto the canvas. I only paint abstracts, but even abstract paintings contain form and structure. Putting the palette knife down I gaze out the window. Looking past the trees and out at the countryside I notice the sun is glimmering through the branches. The clock strikes 7:45 in the morning. I’m waiting for Anna to return from her walk which she takes everyday after she wakes up. I can imagine her passing through the desolate landscape, through the winding forest path and out by the seaside. As she walks down to the ocean she removes her shoes and socks and gently dips her feet into the refreshing water. Then she looks up at the sky and watches the clouds drifting along. As she gazes she spots a plane and her soul yearns to escape her simple, quiet life.I pick up a tree branch and start adding details to the painting. It resembles a psychedelic ocean floor. The blue paint is pulsating with vibrancy. I grab a knife and tear a hole in the center, which resembles a moist vagina, suffused with self doubt, I press the when suddenly there’s a noise from the hallway, and Anna returns. She passes through the hallway and hangs her coat on a hook. Whatever I wish for is already attained. Anna passes through the kitchen and into our bedroom after which she closes the door. My memories are clean as glass. I gaze at the finished painting placed in the corner of my studio, it fills me with sorrow. I was still a toddler when my schoolmate died in a fire. The memories of his blue eyes paint a vivid picture in my mind, the curly blond hair, the striking resemblance to myself, though not in appearance. I still feel like a child though my body resembles a deformed creature. Whenever I dream of something beautiful it is stored in my mind forever. I pick a cigarette from my pack of Camel lights and light it. As the smoke reaches the ceiling my mind wanders. My life is complicated by the days that resemble memories. I still dream of freedom from the unbearable sadness. I smoke the cigarette to my fingertips and put it out in a black ashtray. As I pass through the hallway my mind feels lighter. I knock on Anna’s door and open, she’s laying on her side sleeping. When I lay next to her I cradle her in my arms. She smells of lavender perfume and her hair is curly yet unbrushed. The clock strikes 8 when I close my eyes and fall asleep.
I wake mere hours later to an empty bed, I gaze around the room and feel my mood becoming melancholic.
Anna opens the door with a tired demeanor.
Matthew, did you take your medication last night?”
“I think so, sometimes I forget.”
Anna walks through the room and opens the closet where she picks out a pair of bright blue socks.
“Take it now if you forgot, you’ll thank me later.”
After she exits the room I gaze at the cracks in the ceiling. Memories fade like dreams. Like clouds painted over the sky.
I would like to continue with my painting, though my mind feels heavy. I hate painting when I feel depressed. Everything becomes grotesque. I remember a skull I painted when I was sure I was about to die. The centipede crawling through the eye socket struck me as particularly abhorrent. My mind is made of glass and shatters easily. But I would rather be fragile and sensitive in a world without empathy. No one cares about anything these days. Apathy is the devil’s virtue. Sometimes I dream of myself and forget I am real
I’m still a total recluse. There’s times when I stay indoors for months, painting and listening to music throughout the day. I find my artworks improve in quality the longer I stay secluded. I enter deep within the recesses of my mind and disappear. Nothing will shake my pernicious, childish, pursuit of creating. Anna and I aren’t wealthy, though we make enough to get by. I rarely sell my artworks anymore, and find that mostly I create them for myself. Creating any form of art can be a therapeutic endeavor. I sometimes wonder how mad I would be without a creative outlet.
The future looks deserted, and the present is in shambles. I used to be lost, but I still am.
I wish I could articulate the sensation depression gives me in simple terms. It’s sort of like being pierced through the heart. A disorder of the soul. My mind feels crowded with sickly thoughts. Like a dark dungeon devoid of light. I don’t feel the need to shed any more tears because I’m exhausted. I want to sleep forever and not wake, since sleep is a preparation for death. I used to retrace my steps in my mind, and go further and further into the past, searching for the moment it all went wrong, but ended up perplexed by my life, myself, and the world outside my vision. There is nothing out there for me, and there never was. There have been moments of joy, but how can you be happy whilst knowing your time on this earth is limited? That’s the greatest lie I’ve been told, the idea that we exist to be happy. We exist to suffer, and we all suffer alike. You can wear a mask and paint your face, but inside we’re all broken toys, aimless and adrift, unsure of what path in life is correct, and constantly questioning our current one. There are no answers, and life remains a mystery even to the sharpest minds.
“Howard, you shouldn’t be working so hard, stress isn’t good for you.”
Anna is sitting opposite me by the dinner table. As I pour wine into a glass, my eyes linger on her painted nails.
“I find painting relaxes me. I would go mad without something to do while you’re away.”
Anna takes a sip from her glass.
“I’m trying to cut back on work hours, I know you hate to be alone while haunting this house.”
I let out an exhausted laugh and rest my fork on the edge of my plate.
“I found a buyer for one of my new abstracts.”
“Really? That’s nice.”
I still dream of Anna, both when I’m awake and asleep. I haven’t experienced many relationships but I know what love is. We met a long time ago, yet we’re still young, at least in our minds. I wonder what would happen if she died before me. I would probably follow her into the dark. I’m comfortable alone as long as I feel her love from a distance. When she’s away at work I fantasize about what she does, who she’s talking to, what she’s thinking about. I wish I could share her mind with mine, so she could hear my thoughts and I could hear hers. That in my opinion is life’s tragedy. That we can never fully understand another person, and that we can never fully understand ourselves.
It’s night when I wake from a particularly terrifying nightmare. The bedroom is empty and my mood is anxious. I pass through the door and out into the hallway where my gaze lingers on a painting, it resembles Anna, but I know it’s not her. All my paintings are depictions of dreams that I store in my mind. The longer I rest my eyes on the artwork, the more it seems to drift and fade, as if the colors are swirling in a psychedelic fashion. The woman who resembles Anna has black hair while Anna’s is golden blonde, but the face is an exact replica. I can’t remember painting this, though my memory is poor these days. In her right hand she’s holding a skull, which is slightly stained by blood, and the moon which is bright blue is visible in the distance. Over her right shoulder there’s a forest depicted, the darkness of the trees strikes me as particularly ominous.
Suddenly I hear footsteps through the hallway and a door slamming, I discern the noise is coming from my studio. As I walk over and open the door the room is empty. I feel consumed by darkness, as if there’s a black cloud above my head that trails my steps. I gaze around the studio and suddenly notice my paintings, which are scattered around the room all depict black skulls and burning corpses. Horrified, I turn to exit the room but the door is locked. Panicking, I tear at the doorknob and beat my fists against the door when suddenly the lights go out, and the room submerges into darkness. I cannot utter as much as a whisper out of fright. As the lights turn on I’m standing in my bedroom with Anna asleep in front of me. Perplexed though relieved I collapse in the corner of the room with my heart beating ferociously in my chest.
In my recurring dream I visit a palace of snow. There’s frozen leaves falling around me as I open the door with timid steps. The hallways are cold. I’m following a trail of footprints. To the left there’s a stairwell and I make my way up. I spot a mirror in the hallway which I gaze into, the face looks familiar, though I’m dressed in an white outfit. I float to the master bedroom and open the door. Inside there’s a bed of snow with two frozen corpses lying side by side. The corpse to the left resembles Anna and she’s holding a book in her frozen palm. I walk over to her and pry it from her grip. As I turn it over I read the title. “Permanence” it says. It’s filled with obscure images. There’s depictions of me and Anna. I see a childhood photo of Anna standing with her father, she can’t be older than five. Skimming further I see photos of myself and Anna during our wedding day, both dressed in white among a crowd of friends and relatives. I feel a single teardrop cascading. I place the book in Anna’s palm and make my way out of the frozen palace. There’s a winter forest before me when I exit. I follow a path through the woods and snow is falling. I make my way further into the depths, when suddenly I arrive at a large frozen lake. Removing my shoes and socks I place my feet on the ice and walk. There’s a bright blue moon above which I momentarily gaze at. Everything around me is white and clean like bedsheets. Suddenly the ice starts to break and I fall into the water. I don’t feel cold when I sink further down the abyss. Standing at the bottom, I gaze around and see a television set in the distance which I start walking toward. Placing my hands on the clear white screen my hand sinks into and I’m sucked inside.
I wake in my bed with Anna next to me. The rain smatters on the bedroom window and my mind is cloudy. I try to wake Anna by gently shaking her but she smacks my arm away and goes back to sleep.
I will follow this river wherever it leads.
My paintings are still scattered around the studio when I enter. After placing a blank canvas on a wooden frame I grab a box of paints and palette knives and sit down. I rarely start with an idea when I paint, I prefer to let my subconscious work out a theme. I smear black and pink across the canvas and see a ghostly image of a shadow creature emerging. The still is ominous. I continue with black and white while painting a gray sky. The picture is dark, perhaps the recent dreams I’ve had are influencing the picture . Or maybe it’s the unease between me and Anna that’s troubling my mind. In recent weeks she has had to work overtime, usually coming home late at night and going right to bed. I understand she has other obligations than me, but I still feel slightly neglected.
I lie next to Annabelle in the darkness of our bedroom. I stroke her hair gently and listen to her breathing. Suddenly she places her hand on mine.
“What happened to us?
I recoil at the question.
“Where are we now?”
“What do you mean? We’ve always been here.”
Anna turns towards me and looks in my eyes with a frightened expression
“I feel lost. I can’t remember my childhood.”
I stroke Anna’s hair from her face
“Are you still dreaming?”
“All my dreams are daydreams.”
Anna’s pupils suddenly turn white. I grab her
arms as she drifts into a seizure.
“Is the mirror in the hallway cursed?”
Anna closes her eyes and stops shaking, and we both fall asleep.
In my restless dreams I see a stream of water in a blooming forest. I follow the trail into the depths. I try to remember when I first had this dream, and how many times I’ve had it, but I found myself bewildered as I often am. I trace it back to my childhood. The further into the trees I go the more vivid and realistic the dream becomes, until I can no longer discern reality from dreaming. I stop to drink from the water while thinking intently of myself and my mind. I think about how I think and conclude that I have no internal monologue and can only think in pictures. I see my own reflection in the water and notice that my eyes have changed color, as they often do while we’re dreaming. I used to feel so alone in my youth, the only consolation I had was that I became comfortable with my solitude. Thankfully, in the end, I found a person to share my mind and body with.
Gabriel Wing 