UNFINISHED

very very brief story still in works

                 I Work at an art museum. All my life I observe the observers that awe or complain about over the embodiment of an artist’s mind hung up. Seeing the name as a status, commending or dissing them for not selling them a brand well enough. Let’s say I ask you do picture Van Gogh, what do you think of? Certain individuals might think of blue and yellow palate in the night, or a chopped off ear laying on a satin cloth in a display case. Lit up like the items of the artist’s own insanity. Let me bring up another one, the homeless man named Westie, a paraplegic. Logically using the needs of food, water, crack, and booze, he places a pencil in his mouth and moves his head back and forth against bits of paper. Its even impressive listening to an event like this through conversation, but witnessing a lonely almost sane, raggy Monet, who creates something better than Jesus on the 4^th day. Only to society though he is forever pictured as bitter pocket change and empty bottles. No brand, no specific colors but tan cardboard under misfit shades of grimed green. Society sees the perfect little idea of Jesus, unless it is covered in easily, avoidable filth. Shame on them.  

                

My job is to protect, project the repetitive prints and chunky old art. When you are alone in a building, in a shiny, open, old, empty building you are out of focus. Not even dreaming of what my career will be after my job. When you’re in an empty, scary place in your mind creates thoughts that you can clear, manipulate, console, and torture as they scream into your ears. Just how people are manipulated from or for a society. Can’t stress enough how productive I am at what I do here. At times I even help with the janitors, dusting the shelves and displays, just so I can imagine the specks floating to another world of a piece dark polished furniture. I feel power in watching for thieves who try to get rich off my duty. I never have stopped anyone, no crime, no vigilantes; just myself. I see myself as a father, no wait more like a uncle who gets passed down from generation to generation until he can’t comprehend the idea of a family no longer. I don’t give a s**t.

 Its like being a slave, gazing over the rich masters silvers, your job is too tempting. Your main duty is to watch them tempt you, and protect them from greedy b******s from the outside world to shove them up your sleeve, like yourself. Just I was making a single mistake from cutting hopes and dreams out of the picture frame, it happened when I was making my usually runs through the master’s house. It begins with a single stream of blood leading my feet. The building was built over a sinkhole therefore the building leans. The stream I followed was thick; the single blood kept it shape and left a opaque trail behind it. It ran into the east corner of the French artist’s gallery. A dead end, a end into inches of the sick red life source, slowly becoming a pool on itself. Reversing the carpet from wading to drowned.

I turned around following the opposite way of the leaking blood trail. I have never been deeply desensitized before, I have always been cautious, monitoring my every move and well-being. Never taking risks. Pathetic. But I saw the mangled red coated lump, looking like an infected wet cocoon on the floor; the same thick blood clashing with the pearly marble. I ran my eyes toward the upper region of the lump. My entire breath jammed up, I couldn’t release it, my chest had shot up 100mph into my throat. The jaw, f**k the jaw was the worst part

Author's Note

still not finished....very very have an idea © kensins