The Cycle

That overcast morning whilst walking down a forlorn trail, Michael picked up a rusted gear cog from the forest floor. It was the size of his fingertip, cold to the touch. He grew fond of it immediately. So worn, gritty, rough around the edges. He could only imagine what contraption it was once a part of. Now he was staring at it on his worktable.

“What to do with it?” he thought, tapping his fingers on the cheap folding table. Maybe he could use it on his “magnum opus”. An unfinished sculpture made of paper mâché, wire and tape, lurking from his closet. He had wanted to sculpt a woman. He thought he needed nothing but the knowledge of his mind’s eye. He presumed, scoffed that he had seen one too many a woman before, yet dumbfounded when in the end, it looked nothing like. Although it was him who had created a woman with a bulbous head, bulging glass eyes and cavities where his nose, mouth and ears were supposed to be. Now it leans on a wall of his closet, alone and abandoned, asking to be put out of its misery. Michael tried to salvage it on a short-lived 3 am adrenaline rush, that only left incomprehensible ink scratchings, post-it notes and torn limbs for future modifications to be ignored, forgotten, never to be upheld. Now there is an unfinished husk of a monster in the closet. Every time he meets its eyes, he is haunted by what could have been—so he walked in the closet and threw it out.

He was hooked on the initial intoxicating rush of picking up a new skill that fuelled his legs to sprint up to the crafts store, kept his heart racing when opening up the art supplies and trying them out, but then slamming the brakes when he realised, he was making a new monster for his closet. He knew little of what he was getting into each time. Hoping to figure it out as he went. Aiming too high for the first project in a new medium, creating a snowball that surmounted to an avalanche of failure trailing down his sculpting journey, now he cannot touch clay. It made his skin burn. Now Michael put the supplies away in a box where he can remember to forget.

While he got up from his chair to close the closet door, he tripped over some jars of dirty paint water. Oh, right. They were from last night’s art session.

His main goal was to master all mediums of art he could lay his hands on. But he was not willing to buckle down and learn what it truly took to be a great artist. Although, he did try last night. He buckled down, wore some old jeans and a shirt he does not care about, fetched some rarely used mason jars filled with water, and grabbed some old paintbrushes. Finally, he laid brush to paper, creating bold strokes that he did not understand at the moment but knew their place on the paper. He feathered the brush, got splatters everywhere. He felt like an artist in the flurry of flying paint. The rush came back, overwhelming him with the euphoria of creating something before his eyes. He always knew he was an artist; he was a force to be reckoned with, he always knew that. It would be days now till he finally got his big break; this masterpiece cannot go unnoticed. He sang along with the motion of the paint strokes, he danced to the rhythm of bristles to the canvas. He felt in tune with the art. In tune with the earth.

Then he took a look at his art. Record scratch. He stopped dead in his tracks. No, this cannot be. It is all right, no need to fret. We can fix this. He planted his bottom to the floor and anchored his toes to the carpet. He stretched his motivation out to fix the flaw. He made a new palette. He looked at references, rearranging their structure, took a deep breath and pressed his paintbrush to the canvas once more. He slowed down, breathing with every stroke, staring as the paints blended together, wiping beads of sweat off his forehead while smearing some on himself. He is an artist. Michael Feldberg is an artist. By God, he will make a masterpiece this night. He swears on his life. He cracked his neck, bit his lip, he would gnaw on his skull if he could, he would do anything to get this painting to suffice, to please the art world. It should be in galleries, shown to every man, woman and child because Michael is an artist.

He clawed at his cheeks and neck. He sprang up from his zen and started to roar. Roar, roar. In his cottage. He breathed in, his stomach caved, and diaphragm pushed down to let out a piercing shriek…

Now his throat was hoarse, eyes bloodshot, ears ringing from his own sound. He turned, spun and tumbled on the floor and held onto his sides. He opened his mouth but not a sound left his lips. Only hot tears down his cheeks. His face scrunched in pain and he cried to himself in his cottage in the middle of nowhere, far from anyone. He separated himself from people thinking it was them that stifled his creativity, telling him that he had responsibilities to fulfil, bills to pay. He had to be the underdog. They were the antagonists. He had to get away. So he left his husband and child. He ran away from it all, but what has he to say to them when he, if ever, got back. With a dumpster filled with unfinished monsters, floors clustered with packages, plastics and boxes from things he lavishly bought but only take up space, now he is laying on the floor, the king of his fallen kingdom.

He sniffled quietly to himself. Steadied his breathing, and cleared his mind. One two three. One two three. He sat up. One two three. One two three. He drummed on his chest, beating on it. One two three. One two three. He swung along with the sway of the trees outside, dancing to natures song. One two three. One two three. He spun around to his closet picked up some charcoal pencils. One two three. One two three. He got on his worktable, casting aside all his bits and pieces, scraps. He started to sketch the rusted gear. One two three. One two three.