I don't get myself at all. Here I am at 5 o'clock, just finished writing this thing I started at 4AM. My eyes have been hurting since 10-ish and yet, somehow, I manged to write this. Probably because I did this with my eyes half closed. I've been feeling all sorts of inspiration lately and I really don't have much to show of it. I can't even begin to channel it. So frustrating. Which probably spawned this monster story that I actually finished. It makes no sense. I'm doing this half-asleep. My stomach hurts. It makes no sense, I just decided to screw with everything and write until I got to the end. And this is the end. Even if it is, dear Palette, I did you no Justice as I cannot do myself any. Screw with it. I shall post this up for my own reading pleasure when I can think and afterwords it shall probably be banished in it's inanity, it's triviality, it's dismal banality.
There she sat, sat, sat. There she sat, sat, sat. Sat in the white room with the satin pillows, silk sheets, and clean, freshly painted white walls. Sat in the small, tiny white room with a single window with those white curtains opened, a breeze gently blowing through the bars. There she sat, sat, sat in the center of the room on a tiny white stool, surrounded by white, blank canvas sitting on top of white easels, dressed in simple white, one piece dress. A bright smile, a grin, a whisper-soft hint of a something more lurked beneath the murky shadows of her hazelnut eyes. There was a childish simplicity, a teenage audacity, and yet an sense of adult fatalism in her all at once, colliding every so often, smashing at each other at full force, full momentum, causing one to wonder what exactly was this white-clad figure who sat at the center of the room, surrounded by all those blank canvases. At her bare feet laid colors of every shade imaginable along with a small, white stuffed animal oryx who was missing a horn.
Oh the symbolical meaning that lay behind that missing horn. What could have happened to it? Had it broken off it an accident, a wispy breeze of carelessness that left the cotton-stuffed beast disabled and forever branded by such a misfortune, cruel, cruel fate? Did such a past even matter in the grand, brilliant scheme of things? No; not at all--it was not that which mattered, but that which lay in it's present, future, and present-future on a plain which dreamy thoughts, idle, half-form wished existed. The noble white beast kind face, black beaded eye stared with such a brilliant burnish that reflected the image of everything within it's sight, a black mirror, a black reflection that question, questioned--made one question what exactly was it that made one so drawn to the beast. Such majestical, mythical aura surronded the oryx. There was no doubt it's breathing relatives and siblings had been mistaken or had been the origin of unicorns. And Mr. Fluffy White--as this noble creature was so lovingly dubbed by his strawberry blonde master--with his one horn obviously signified that fantasy tied into realism.
And there she sat, sat, sat looking at her canvas with complete interest, enthralled by the sight ahead of her. Her thin, pale white arms reached out tracing patterns and abstract contours of something only she could discern; only she, such a creature of such a specific disposition; temperment that was tempered by a heavy hammer, branded with a scalding hot emotional fortitude (such a curious form, creation), could see.
"Don't you see it, Mr. Fluffy White?" she asked happily, bubbly in her happiness, "there it is, my masterpiece, my creation, the center of my very being!"
She said it because she saw it so clearly, her vision of grandeur. The thing that would throw away from this room that she was locked in, caged in. Caged in blankness, the ugliness of white. The deformed, appalling beast of white, all revealing, yet all concealing. It threw the shadows back, but never fully banished them. And hidden, those shadows grew, swelling to unimaginable pits that, once released, engulfed its master into the darkness of despair.
Yet she was not such a creature of despair. Oh now, such things could never distract her, engult her. She was like a ray of sunlight, bright, burning, yet transparent. What was she, what was Palette, she often asked herself. Who was this Palette? And then she would giggle. Palette was the ageless girl in this ageless room, in the ageless time, sitting in an chair next to an aging canvas. It all made sense, it really did. It was all part of her vision, her sleepy dream that left her grinning in happiness. For it was finally going to be expressed! She had found it, her theme, the meaning, her reason of existing. No longer would she confine herself in this vile purity but cover it in a plethora of colors. She shall make those indifferent white white walls cry out as colors splashed onto them all the expressions. Here a splash of yellow, and perhaps over there blue that mixed together to make such a lovely shade of green.
But she was getting ahead of herse. She saw not of any of this. She saw, what did she see? Her vision, of course. So excited, churning, burning, spurning her to action. A second hand reached out towards the canvas ahead of her, feeling the texture of the canvas. There, within that blank space her image lay. All she had to do was gently coax it out with her brush, baiting it with her colors, pull it out with each delicate brush--squish squish==and there it would be!
Her plan was ready! So she reached out towards those paints and grabbed a red at first. With a gentle squeeze the a red bit of ink landed onto her arm. For red was of passion and the fiery expression that burned oneself in its great intensity. It was an auspicious way to start. And then there was the brilliant blue to signify a sense of serenity like in a tranquil lake of a similar shade and also of the cloudy, unreachable heavens that was always beyond one's grasp. And so she continued her actions, humming happily to herself as she squeezed the paints onto her left arm. One after another and then she was done. She reached for her brush.
"Just you wait, Mr. Fluffy White. I shall show you something special."
The brush is in her hand, she brings the clean brush onto the canvas, envisioning her vision of grandeur. She saw it all, in images, in bits of pieces--of jumbled words that seemed to all make sense in her mind, forming bits of prose and poetry that seemed so very perfect, so very emotional, so very brilliant--they crashed through her mind like waves on a cliff, reaching higher and higher onto the cliff, but never reaching the top. She saw it all, it filled her with such powerful emotions. If, if, if...if only should could pull out a fraction of that potential than she could have something truly special.
She shivered and shook her head in disbelief. She saw it all unfold in front her, such brilliant, incandescent images, shimmering in the distance yet oh-so very bright. Bright like a flame in darkness. And yet, that flame was so very strong that even before she began to approach it, it burned her. So she withdrew her head out of instict, out of fear, and never could take the complexity of her thoughts and fully craft it into something true, something competent. All that lay there was just, just, just trash.
Trash! That was what it all was. She looked at the white canvas in distaste, staring so hard at it that her view began blur and everything seemed to swim as one in her hazenl-colored eyes. So she squinted. She brought her brush up once more, looking at the canvas, at her instant masterpiece--at least, what it would be if she was able to reach it.
...What was this! Why couldn't she even begin to describe her plans, sketch those outlines, pour all her sweat, tears, and personal anguish onto that canvas?
Palette shook her head.
"No, that isn't right. Not at all. Why can’t I see it now? I don't understand. It’s right there, in front of me, but I just can't reach it. An epiphany out of reach, a ghost of a taste on the tip of my tongue, a sound lodged against my throat that wants to be released, but instead it's just there, choking me. I want to scream it out, but I can’t. The roof of my mouth is frozen, my lips are numb, my tongue isn’t able to articulate. Why?"
Why was it, Mr. Fluffy White, she simpled to silently imply, why was it that she was stuck in this white, white, white room of nothingness, of mediocrity. She had every tool imaginable at her disposal. And...
Footsteps, she heard footsteps. She froze in place but those footsteps went pasted her door. There were booted feet--the wardens, and then there was a soft plodding sound of socks hitting the floor that was barely audible, but she could hear it. It made her lips twist into a pleased smile. Served Ms. Bartholomew right, her and those shoes of hers that always announced her proud presence, the instruments that brought her back and forth, to-and-from the outside.
Oh, how she hated Ms. Bartholomew! Hated the fact that she could breeze through everything as if it meant nothing. She was on the oustide while she stayed lock, confined in this tiny white, white, white room. She hated how Ms Bartholomew managed to make everything so easy! Two days ago, Ms. Bartholomew had draw her a picture! What brazen audacity, torturous arrogance! How dare she draw her a picture! She had torn it up at the spot, angry at it. It had been a good picture, but Palette hated it. Hated it with ever fiber of her being for it represented something violent in her. The angry, violent Red and the crazed Silver both wanted to reach out and strangle that putrid woman.
It was the fact that Ms. Bartholomew's picture had been so perfect. Palette knew she could do so much better, so much more. AFter all, this was her chance! There all the colors existed on her arms. All she had to do was paint it, express it, describe her demons and throw them out for the world to see. And yet, nothing. There she stayed in the white, white, white room.
She hated Ms. Bartholomew and her shoes so much. So she had stolen them and thrown them into the closet of the pitiful old man next door to her. Served her right for drawing her a picture! She didn't need her pity!
She looked at her canvas with such resentment. Suddenly, around her, the canvas all flared up, images appearing. Everyone else had finished their images. There Red had her burning forest and her counterpart Blue with his calm rains washing away all the flames that consumed the flames. Pink, oh the love-obsessed pink had painted an image of her desired lover, finished in it's unfinishedness. Of course, True Love would be elusive without image. Each one of her alters spawn their own images, their own reflections. They all surrounded her, finished paintings, all around and around, convoluted, churning, spinning, rapidly, rapidly, rapidly! So fast, speeding forward--who needed words to describe anything? It was the sentiment behind, the crazed fury of the hands moving, trying to form something coherent. On only need the rhythm, the flow of of the brush stroke and everything else would follow. There was no wrong move.
But there was! There was! Everything was wrong. It was all so wrong. Even Silver had finished his piece, so beauty in its owners madness. They were all formed, definite, an expression of themselves, her beloved alters. And yet her canvas remained blank. And suddenly all those filled canvases disappeared, all those beauty paintings. And suddenly her head fell silent.
She was now all alone.
She screamed.
"I don't understand, why is it, Mr. Fluffy White, that I can't express what I want to! Why can’t I do this? Why can’t I express what I want to?" She takes a breath and tries to control herself, and keep her tears from falling. "Here is my brush. My vehicle is in front of me. My paints are mixed, the colors are each the perfect shade. The engine is roaring. I hear the gears of my mind turning, a convolution of ideas, churning, spinning! Inspiration is with me. I get into my vehicle, hands on the wheel. But when I press the gas pedal…I go nowhere. I just don’t understand!
If only, if only I can paint what is inside of me that struggles to burst out. This heaviness in my chest, my heart beating frantically, the tightening of muscles—what is it? Why is it that I can’t even put it into words, let alone abstract lines, curves, and colors that reflect my emotions? Why is it, Mr. Fluffy White, that I can’t paint?"
Why was it that she could not paint? Why was it that she could never express herself, so ungainly, so unsightly, gawky. The frustration pulled out of her in waves. Even now, in her frezy..what? In her frezy she had lost all those images in her mind. Once she tried to give them definite shape, they just laughed and spat at her. Gone now, they were, gone now, she had nothing else to rely on but what ever remained. She was using dust and a broken hand to try to paint.
So she screamed, and swiped at the canvas, throwing it to the side. She pounced at it, tearing back at forth at it, the paint of her arm dripping, splattering everywhere without abandon. She screamed, cried, and pounded that canvas until it drowned with in a misty delirium of colors. And then she laid on it and fell asleep on it and the rest of the paint on her arm dried.
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vinforspi) wrote,
