THE PAINTING

My story isn't a new one by any means.

Bare this in mind when the

reading of it begins to seem familiar.

I am not a writer, nor have I ever educated myself for such a profession,

but, I find myself compelled to share this incredible

and horrifying experience with you and with this lack of experience,

I will try to describe this to you the best that I am able.

A beautiful painting was brought home one day

and placed upon the wall in a space that was carefully cleaned

and reserved for it.

The painting being abstract and richly immense with warm colors

had both a serious tone to it and child-like qualities.

I loved its large bewildered eyes that seemed to stare intently past me.

I would not say that it was an ordinary painting done

by an ordinary artist because it was done by someone I greatly admired,

but from a distance.

We had never actually met but I enjoyed our correspondences greatly.

I lived alone in the house for some time,

except for the passing of a feral cat that stayed for a week or two

then went on it's way.

At first, I wasn't frightened of the painting by any means.

Why should I be, after all, it was just a painting?

Soon, I found myself staring at the painting fondly in scattered moments of my day.

There was nothing wrong with that, after all,

don't we all do that when something new stands out in the midst of the old?

 But, in time, I found myself spending more and more time fixated on it,

as if it were a conquest of my affection.

The minutes turned to hours and the hours turned into days.

I begin to neglect of my own well-being.

I find as I write this I am becoming extremely embarrassed—

how preposterous it must sound?  But what I tell you is true!

When I became unable to leave the house my concern turned into fear,

and rightfully so!

At first, there was no reason to blame the painting itself,

for I had experienced periods of melancholy before

and they had left me unable to function at all; but this was different.

I don't know how to describe this in a way in which you won't find me mad,

but, when I came near the painting, I shook!

 My heart raced and my head thumped like a childhood first love.

My attempts to align with it left me drained and exhausted.

Touching the painting became out of the question

for my hand begin to stroke the canvas with an imaginary brush in its grasp.

Sometimes the methodical caress became erratic with jolting sweeps

and only a step back would stop its motion.

Whenever I tried to escape outside the painting's view,

I would suddenly find myself back on the couch again

staring across the room at its now terrifying sight.

My eyes became strained and bloodshot from the length of time I had them open.

My stomach ached and my throat burned.

I felt a heavy suffocating air around me, as if I were trapped inside an imaginary bubble.

Even if I could reach for a phone, what would I say?

Who would believe me?

I know even as you read this you find it quite bizarre.  

I knew if I did not take full control of the situation

I would die of madness or eventual starvation.

But, had things really progressed to that?

Why not just approach the painting as if it were an old, trusted colleague,

someone that I could discuss at great lengths Maslow or Solomon Asch?

Someone who understood I had to be released, I

could not live with a love that left me in its shadow

or held me in its chains.

I could not function if I had to take more than my own feelings into consideration.

It was clear though that the more I fought the painting the more it consumed me.

I begin to feel as if I were embedded within the canvas

as it was so tenderly stroked,

then, the rise of maestro with wand in hand; dry, bold, impasto, scumbling!

The fury of an orchestra played on, the hands vibrated with emotions,

the rise and fall of all that was inside a soul yearning to express itself.

To live on a surface, to be seen in colors true!

From fingers to brush, rolled on all sides,

an instrument of vision and pride!

The heavy emotions weighed upon me.

I fell to my knees on the hard wooden floor in gasping breath.

I quivered and jerked.

My hands clenched and withered in immense pain.

The fingertips swollen and bleeding from an instrument---

could it be, from my imagination alone?

Had I created this out of my own need for a connection between myself,

and those who can bare their souls?

Is it because I hid away too many hours in the dark,

thirsting for expression that never came?

Above me, the picture stared down with Machiavellian eyes.

Disgust! Loathing! Revulsion!

It striped me bare and called my name in a supercilious voice.

My naked body covered in deep, crimson, welts,

from stroke after stroke, bristle after bristle, pricking, burning!

 I crawled into a corner of the room and uttered sounds of humiliation.

This disparage I had brought upon myself.

I screamed inside, if only I could reach the window-----

or the door, yes, the door with it's glass front---someone might see me!

They would know---they would know----what?

You must realize I had to laugh at this point.

I threw my head back, first chuckling, then stuttering,

but quickly my face dropped and with a speculating hand on my chin,

I contemplated the-- insanity of it all!

It was all too real—and it was happening to me!

My breath! My heart! I had to breathe, between the guffawing and the sobbing gasps!

I tried to slow everything down, but peace was not to be found.

The painting had finally fulfilled its need for self-actualization.

I knew now It could only live through me,

it could only be seen through my assessment,

so as to be, adored, appreciated, loved, valued----

To be an antidote! To bring joy!   

Without me, it was merely a perception waiting for visualization.  

It could not sustain its comeliness without me!

I wondered if the painting heard my whispers,

read my thoughts as I planned a way to kill it?

That sounded insane just saying it, yet still....

What was within my reach? What sharp object?

What draping cover? What pen? What brush?

My eyes swept the room for anything to plunge into the canvas

and to slice it down the center!

To claw! To puncture! To wound!  A plant ornament?

A broken glass picture frame? A blanket?

All that was left were unpaid debts and an old box filled with pastel paint,

brushes and colored felt pens--- Wait!

Colored pens that would work, wouldn't it?

One alteration, just one change, might perhaps.... but why take chances?

No, I would lunge forward in one quick leap,

both hands drawn out from behind me like a gunslinger at noon

and rapidly cover it with wild propelling hands!

Cover it in a dense, black, darkness, a thick, penetrating, blindfold,

so the eyes would not see,

so they would no longer torment me with their tyrannical stare!

My mind feverish with thought, my heart hammering---

would I be able to go through with this?

Look at the painting, just look at it!

How long I had yearned for it, a yearning that was known only to me.

I had tried pulling creations out of my own visionary hat,

but it always came out with no resolve.

So, my life came to be only an imitation of a virtuoso's success.

       

I was subservient, a lackey,

the type a person no one would miss until they needed something.

I would die here alone.

I didn't like that thought.

I knew there were still flies in the house.

It was revolting! Terrifying!

envisioned my body slowly rotting into the carpet in a green slimy mess.

There would be so much decay by the time I was found

I would be smeared into the center of the carpet and rolled away, fly larvae and all.  

But, the painting would live on.

It would still be in pristine condition staring down from its lofty perch,

with admiring eyes below.

I grimaced and curled my lip.

Not on my watch does it become an eternal haunt!

I fumbled through the old box with shaking hands.

Where was the black? Where was the darkest?

It was now or nevermore! So armed like an assassin with searing blades,

I came at the painting with the strength of a leopard,

violently marking with both hands in motion, searing strokes,

amalgamating into one.

The painting cried in agony! I screamed in wicked joy!

After the black was layered to solid

I grabbed colors of every variation and with each stroke

I created dimension after dimension with rich shadows and crisp lines.

With these frightened, angry,

hands my hidden prowess was manifested!

I was free!

I stood back and looked, and let out a breath held too long,

sighs of relief, and tears streaming, I

had created without a doubt, my own masterpiece at last.