It's Just a Painting

A Story by doubt-ful

I wrote this awhile ago, and it's more of a journal entry than a story. I guess this is my way of getting through the unknown.

Tuesday August 25th, 2015

I stopped writing because I thought it was lame to talk to yourself. You stare at this blank sheet, willing words to come out of your mouth. Hoping all the things you didn’t say or want to say will somehow come out. You plan it all in your head, the letters, the words, the subject.. But that’s not what comes out. Somewhere in between the organization and the staring at the blank paper, you let go. What were you going to say? It doesn’t matter. Everyone has a favorite person, a grandma they send letters to every christmas, a narcissistic a*****e of a boyfriend that they kiss, and even a pet dog, probably called Lucky or Mr. Sniffles or some other pretentious wonderwall of a word. What about it though? It's so easy to fall in love with people and ideas and everything that calls to your derivative passions. That's okay, it's nice and all I have to admit. Just as it's nice like looking at a painting. You look and feel all you want, and you can stare. You can stare for hours on end and wonder about the raindrops hitting the outdoor patio and you can see through the patio and you see that it's colorless and it's drenched and nothing is at all what it seems. But looking at that painting, you feel in tuned and you feel like the weight of the world is on your shoulders and it's simultaneously drastic and awe inspiring. The fact of the matter is though, you don't know. You don't know if it's rain hitting that patio or if it's a thousand humming birds pecking and pecking at your window calling you to let them in. And you don't know that it's colorless or if it's just the fog and the early spring and all other mysterious yet dark things entrancing you to not see through the darkness and into the face of color. And no, you really have no idea if it's drenched, if the tear drops covering your now unblank paper are really that; tears? Or is it the mist, the slowly dredging, the mysteriously eerie sense of the waves coming and going. That’s what waves do, they come, and they soak you in, every drop, every inch, every flickering little ounce of you and they take you whole. Like nothing ever has, they'll sweep up your every misfortunate event, your every late night heartache and they'll recede. That’s when they go. They take it all, and then they leave you there, only to stare blankly at the body of water. And you look at it the same way you looked at that blank paper. And is it so entirely impossible to feel everything and nothing all at once? To feel so hauntingly empty but so inhumanely alive at the same time? ……. (its just a painting)